Microfilm, Memories, and the House of Mouse

What do Pixar films and microfilm have in common? 

It seems just as odd for me to write that question as I'm sure it does for you to read it. But the best way I can think of to connect the dots between some of my most foundational experiences with Figueira family history is with a pair of Disney/Pixar references. 

If you've seen the animated hit Inside Out, you'll be familiar with the film's central concept of "core memories." If not, here's a quick rundown: 

The main storyline follows an 11-year old girl, Riley, from Minnesota, whose family abruptly moves to San Francisco when her father changes jobs. Riley's emotions are the central figures, and much of the film follows their frantic efforts to manage, prevent, alter, or reverse the consequences of Riley's reactions to these feelings and the stress and uncertainty of her family's sudden uprooting and her new and unfamiliar surroundings. Early on, we see the control room, or command center, of Riley's mind, deftly managed by Joy, the emotional commander-in-chief, who used to having everything under control. She introduces us to Riley's memory orbs, which form with each day's new experiences, and which the team safely shuffles off into her long-term memory. Some of these orbs, however, are special, because they represent "core memories," or recollections of events and experiences so powerful that they form a key part of Riley's identity, and sustain the various "islands of personality" that make Riley who she is.

One of my core memories involves microfilm. 

Given my Portuguese-Hawaiian roots and my religious affiliation, I suppose I was destined, at some juncture, to fall head-over-heels for family history work, but, predispositions aside, I can pinpoint the exact moment when my ancestry jumped off the page - or the film - as it were, and lit a fire inside me that completely colors my worldview. 

Long before the advent of at-home DNA kits and digitized census records at your fingertips, a towering, cement-colored library rose to prominence in downtown Salt Lake City. (It's still there - and it's reinvented, reformed, and trailblazed its way into the modern age of web-based genealogical sleuthing and global connection). One particular evening in 1998 (if I recall correctly), I found myself below ground level, in the international records section of the thirteen-year-old edifice that was a major stepping stone for what was once known as the Genealogical Society of Utah. There, in a cavernous but windowless research room, by the yellow light of a then cutting-edge microfilm projector, I watched with my father as he scrolled (the old-fashioned way) through several reels of film - nothing was indexed or searchable - looking for clues to his origins in the manifests of ships that had sailed from Europe to Hawai'i by way of Madeira, the small, Portuguese island territory from which his grandparents emmigrated. 

I don't recall whether we had any success. In fact, I believe we returned home empty-handed. But that night in the Family History Library, as an 18-year-old, soon-to-be young man, I felt a spark ignite, a stirring within. In those minutes-turned-hours, I fell in love with my ancestors - or at least, I felt the excitement of the search and the power of connection to those whose lives had combined to bestow mine. I felt a sudden, strong desire to find their names, learn of them, and connect to them, deeply. 

Fast forward twenty years to another (for me) seminal moment. It was RootsTech 2018, and my first time attending. On the heels of the smash success Coco, the country was awash in a fervor for family history, as well as in genealogy- and Dia de los Muertos-themed products and events. Even RootsTech, by then the world's largest family history conference, had joined in the fun (face painting and all). 

You may remember one poignant scene from Coco, in which the deceased Chicharrón, a minor character, passes out of existence while in the afterlife, as an emotional young Miguel (the main protagonist) looks on. Distraught, he turns to his short-on-luck companion, Hector, to make sense of what he has just witnessed. As Hector explains, "He's been forgotten. If there's no one left to remember you in the living world, you disappear from this world.... Our memories have to be passed down by those who knew us in life - in the stories they tell about us. But there's no one left alive to pass down (his) stories."

While not entirely original to Coco, that sentiment played prominently in one address I heard that day at RootsTech. The speaker quoted the following passage from a novel by David Eagleman titled Sum: Forty Tales From the Afterlives. 

“There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.”

Those words stunned me, forever changing the way I viewed my relationship to my heritage. No longer was genealogy simply a higher-level hobby than most, or even solely a religious duty. Something in those words convinced me, in an even deeper way, that beyond this world, in a place we will all return to, we have family members who love us, who take a profound interest in our lives, and who labored and sacrificed to provide the blessings and opportunities we now enjoy. They know us; they remember us. I believe they look to us to preserve what was precious to them. And while our ancestors may not literally pass out of existence should we forget them, it is beyond doubt that they each deserve - and, I would add, long - to be remembered. 

So what does this mean for us? Well, for me, at least, it means making greater efforts to find and record the names of our ancestors, connecting the dots in our family trees. It means taking time to find, scan, and share old photographs, to learn and preserve the stories of our loved ones who have, or soon will, pass on. And it means connecting with living family members, regardless of age, and creating deeper bonds that will strenghten family ties for generations to come. 

Then perhaps it's not as far a cry as it seems to connect today's animated films with yesterday's microfilm. After all, we each need connection, and so often its our shared stories that connect us. So whether on the big screen or the touch screen, whether posting stories or simply "talking story," let's share moments and memories, our laughs and our photographs. We're all one big Figueira Ohana - so let's connect.