The Mandela Effect

A phenomenon I’ve noticed getting more and more attention lately is something called, “The Mandela Effect.” The way it’s described is a collective false memory; a bunch of people remember something happened a certain way, even though every shred of evidence proves to the contrary. The name comes from Nelson Mandela who became president of South Africa in 1994 and died in 2013. Despite these facts, a lot of people remember him dying in prison in the eighties while he was an activist fighting apartheid.
There are a ton of other examples, several of which I’ve experienced myself. I remember the color chartreuse being a shade of pink, almost like magenta. (It’s greenish yellow.) I definitely looked on Wikipedia to figure out when Jif peanut butter shortened its name from Jiffy. (They never did.) And I don’t care what the internet or the books in my parents’ attic suggest, it was always spelled Berenstein growing up. (It was Berenstain.)
Though the general consensus is just that “boy, human memories sure are imperfect,” another half-serious theory about these phenomena is that, at some point, people with false memories have actually crossed over from a parallel dimension almost exactly like the one they exist in now. Those dimensions are so similar, in fact, that the only difference is the one fairly minor detail in question; the Monopoly guy wears a monocle, for example. (He doesn’t.) If someone has a bunch of false memories, by this theory, it would indicate they’ve jumped dimensions a number of times, perhaps slightly flummoxed at the inconsistency of reality with how they remember it, but otherwise unharmed.
Aside from being general, easy to mistake details, the one other aspect that Mandela Effect phenomena share is that people are unable to pin down the specific time that they “crossed dimensions”. In most cases, the false memories originated years ago, often in childhood, but people can’t name the instant things changed.
There was one time I’ve experienced the Mandela Effect, however, that while it comes from my childhood, I remember the exact moment the jump happened. Really, I can pin it down to a period of a minute or two. And the thing that changed…well.
It wasn’t a minor detail.
The summer of 1994 was destined to be memorable for me, one way or another. My dad’s youngest brother, Uncle John, and his wife had just had their third daughter. Their two older girls, Abby and Alison, were aged nine and seven respectively. To help the happy couple get adjusted to the new addition, my dad’s older brother, Uncle Mike, offered to take the kids on a road trip for a couple weeks. Mike was always a bit of an eccentric, not in the least that he always drove an old Winnebago camper around as his primary mode of transportation. I don’t think you could afford to do that these days, what with the price of gas, but I digress. My parents agreed my brothers and I should go on the trip to keep my cousins company.
At seventeen years old, my older brother, Danny, was along for purely practical reasons. Uncle Mike’s plan was to take us up and down a good portion of the mid-Atlantic region to visit distant family members and see some of the sights. Danny was way too old (and cool) to hang out with a bunch of kids still in elementary school but having another person along with a driver’s license to spell Mike made sense.
My brother, David, though…I truthfully thought there was no good reason to bring him along. He was only five and, though I certainly loved him after a fashion, in my ten-year-old mind he was the most annoying little kid in the world. I argued and argued with my mom that he shouldn’t come, that he would only be a hindrance, but she made no bones about it; if I wanted to go then David would be coming too. At last, I relented.
The trip itself was amazing. We started off in Ohio at a festival run by a distant uncle who was the pastor of a local church that had rides and cotton candy, the works. We went through Harrisburg to see Hershey Park and tour the governor’s mansion, lost air conditioning on the way to the Liberty Bell in Philadelphia, and spent time with some second cousins on a river ferry near Annapolis. The trip was scheduled to be ten days long and, looking back, it’s amazing the number of things we managed to see and do in that short period.
The motor home itself was relatively small, as such things go. Sure, there was a small kitchenette, a table, couch, even a bathroom, but there was only one small bed situated up over the cabin. While we were all more than comfortable while driving, there was really no way the Winnebago could accommodate all six of us to sleep. Accordingly, my dad and Uncle John had given Uncle Mike money so we could stay at hotels along the way.
Like I said, Mike was a bit of an eccentric. For one reason or another, we could only stop at Speedway stations for gas, and the only hotels he would stay at were Marriotts. At the hotels we would always reserve two adjoining rooms; one for Uncle Mike and Danny, another for us four younger kids. In the kid room, Abby and Alison would share one bed, and that meant David and I got the other.
If I’d thought David was the most annoying little kid in the world before the trip, well now I was sure of it. I’d shared a room with him at home since shortly after he was born, but at least there we had separate beds. Now, his thumb sucking (he was way too old for that) kept me up late into the night. Once I’d finally manage to fall asleep, I’d inevitably get woken up an hour or two later when he’d encroach my space, his sucking and slurping practically in my ear. It was awful, and after a week I was ready to be done with it.
One last thing I need to make note of: even though the different locations we visited were awesome in and of themselves, some of the most fun us four younger kids had was at the hotel pools. Despite only staying at Marriotts, we were continually surprised by the varying designs at each of the franchise locations. Alison, Abby, David, and I spent hours in the pool at every stop, splashing, racing, and generally having a grand time.
Our last scheduled stop was in New York City, and we got in extremely late at night. I’m not sure how many tourist groups of mostly ten and unders have walked the streets and ridden the subways of Manhattan at two in the morning, but on July 8th, 1994 we made one more. As always, Uncle Mike had booked us rooms at a Marriott; specifically, the one next to the World Trade Center.
We slept in late that morning, toured the Empire State Building, and found our ancestors’ registries on Ellis Island from when they came through. We had just gotten into the base of the Statue of Liberty when Uncle Mike gave us two options. We were due to head home the next morning, and the estimated wait to get to Lady Liberty’s crown was almost three hours; did we want to stay in line or go back and check out the hotel pool? The vote was unanimous.
I remember among his other annoying traits it took David an inordinately long time to change into his bathing suit. He was just getting the hang of tying knots and it made me want to scream watching him fumble with the cord on his suit, vehemently refusing to let me help him. I told him impatiently that every minute he wasted getting ready was one less minute we had at the pool. It closed at six and it was already almost five, but no matter what I said he refused to let me tie the stupid thing for him. At last, David was ready, and we raced to the elevator with the girls.
As I mentioned, despite only staying at Marriotts, we’d seen a number of different pool layouts throughout the trip. Some had cabanas, others diving boards, one with actual palm trees and a fake beach, but this was the first to have an honest to goodness water slide. Even better, this one had three, and best of all, we appeared to be the only guests using the pool. The bottom of the slides dumped into a section that was a sort of annex to the main pool with stairs to the right that you took to get up to the top. There were three flights, fifteen stairs each. A sign posted on the wall read “Slide at your own risk! No lifeguard on duty.” I know because every detail of that pool trip is burned indelibly into my brain.
The pool itself was a pretty standard hotel affair, nothing to write home about, so of course we started at the slide. We had limited time, after all. I checked my Timex once we got to the top to see how much we had left. It read 5:02. Darn that David and his knot tying.
There were three slides and four of us. Abby and Alison claimed the first two and I went to move to the third. David grabbed my arm, the sort of unfounded fear in his eyes that only five-year-olds can muster.
Wait for him, he begged me.
I tugged away, left his fingers clutching only air. I told him not to be a baby, to just come down right after me. The girls had already gotten a head start, and I didn’t want to be left out of the race. I threw myself down the slide.
I shot out into the pool at surprising speed. It was so fast! I could tell this was going to be an amazing last day. I pulled myself out of the water using the rails on the poolside and looked at the slide expectantly. Alison and Abby were talking excitedly, already heading back up the stairs and I thought about going with them, but a small (very small) brotherly instinct made me want to make sure David didn’t need help extricating himself from the pool. I waited and waited some more. I heard twin high-pitched shrieks echoing from inside the tubes, and seconds later the girls came flying out with an enormous splash.
I asked them where David was. Was he up at the top, too scared to come down on his own?
My cousins both gave me a look of confusion.
What was I talking about? Who was David?
I thought for sure they were messing with me. I told them it wasn’t funny, to stop screwing around, to be serious. Where was David?
They rolled their eyes in unison, as only sisters can. They went back up the stairs, telling me they weren’t going to waste pool time with dumb jokes. I stood there, dripping and flabbergasted, my eyes fixed on the slide, willing for David to emerge from one of the tubes.
I waited another two minutes. The girls completed another two runs. I didn’t ask them about David again; I wasn’t going to play into whatever trick they were trying to pull on me. My watch read 5:06 when I finally went back up to the top, telling myself up three flights and forty-five stairs that I would find David waiting there, sniffling and trying not to cry, but alive and well.
The entrance of the slide was completely vacant, the only sounds from the girls again hitting the water far below.
I went to find Danny and Uncle Mike. They were sitting in their room, watching something on the television. Now I was the one barely holding back tears. Danny sat up concernedly on the bed, Uncle Mike rushed to where I stood in the doorway asking what was wrong, if I’d gotten hurt. It took me a minute to gain my composure, to haltingly explain that I had somehow lost my little brother.
Neither of them knew who I was talking about.
I sort of lost it then, screaming, thrashing. Where was he? Why was everyone being so mean?
Danny awkwardly tried to give me a hug, but I pushed his arms away. No! I screamed. WHERE WAS DAVID?
Uncle Mike picked up the phone on the nightstand between the two beds. He told me I was freaking him out, but that if it would help, we could call my parents. I yelled at him to do it. Abby and Alison peered through the door, eyes wide, wrapped in towels, about the time the connection went through.
My mom’s voice was concerned as she asked me what was going on, but it had an instant calming effect on me.
Everyone was being terrible, I told her. David was missing and no one would help me find him.
She got quiet for a few long moments, then told me not to worry and to put Uncle Mike back on the phone.
He talked to her for a couple minutes, softly so I couldn’t hear, periodically casting glances to where I was sitting on the bed, before finishing the conversation and letting me say goodbye. My mom told me to do what Uncle Mike and Danny said, that she’d see me soon, but that David was fine, that I’d see when I got home.
I got changed in the same bathroom that not an hour ago I’d argued with David to let me help tie his bathing suit. We quickly packed up the Winnebago and left. Abby and Alison stayed together on the sofa at the back of the camper, watching me nervously, while I sat at the little table in the kitchenette. I didn’t say a word the entire eight-hour drive home.
It was after midnight and Uncle Mike had barely rolled the camper to a stop in our driveway when I jumped out, rushing to the back door where my mom stood, bathrobe held clutched around her. My dad waited anxiously behind her.
Where was David, I asked her, was he all right? Gently she took my hand and led me into the house back towards our room.
When we entered, my jaw literally dropped. Everything was changed. My loft bed was still there, sure, but underneath, where David’s twin bed usually resided, sat a desk covered in drawings I’d done and a small bookcase bursting with Bruce Coville paperbacks and Star Wars novels.
My mom told me it had been a very long, busy trip, and that I needed to get some sleep in my own bed. She said everything would be better in the morning, but that if it wasn’t she could call to make me an appointment with a doctor. She told me that either way I shouldn’t worry, that everything would be all right.
I felt something drop in my chest, just above my stomach, heavy as a stone. I fell to my knees as a gut-wrenching sob ripped from my throat, and I started shaking so hard that I couldn’t manage to stop. Heartbreak and pain and guilt tore through me as I cried uncontrollably, and I think my mind broke a little bit.
The next day was a Saturday, but my mom managed to call around and find a counselor with weekend hours. His name was Mr. Calabrese, but he let me call him Mr. C, and I had sessions with him twice a week for five years. We talked about a lot of different things, though David came up a lot for obvious reasons. Mr. C helped show me that there was no way my entire family had conspired to trick me, that they loved me, that somehow the memories I had of David were just…false. The times when he wanted to play his stupid kiddie games or accidentally broke my toys had never happened. Neither had the ones when he was little and had been scared in his crib at night, when I would reach down from my loft bed so he could stand and just barely grab my fingers with his own. My memories of the feeling of his hand in mine weren’t real, and neither was he.
I’ve lived a generally happy, productive life since the trip. I went to college, got married, have a couple kids of my own. I still stay in touch with my parents and Danny. Dare I say it, we’re very close. We take turns visiting for holidays, go on vacations to Disney World, the whole shebang. Uncle Mike died of a stroke in 2018, so that sucked. Uncle John, his wife, Abby, Alison, and their little sister, Anna, are still doing well though.
My mom waited a good many years to bring it up, mostly because I think she was trying hard not to upset me or mess with my therapy, but long enough down the road and a few Aperol spritzes in one night she told me that she and my dad had tried for a third kid for years after me and had even gotten pregnant when I was four and a half. She’d miscarried at eight weeks. If it was a boy, they were going to name him David.  
Someone reading this account might argue my story isn’t an example of the Mandela Effect. After all, by definition, the phenomenon is a collective false memory shared by a bunch of people. To that I’d say, last Christmas I was visiting my parents and went to midnight mass with them. After the service, I happened to be talking to a woman a few years younger than me whose family my parents have known for the better part of thirty years. She asked me how my brother David was doing, that she hadn’t seen him since their eighth-grade graduation. It took me a second to answer, but I told her he was fine and left it at that. I figured it would just be easier that way.
If the alternate explanation for the Mandela Effect is in fact the real one, that these memories are not actually false but that those who hold them are in fact cross-dimensional travelers, then David is out there somewhere. I wonder at times: was I the one who crossed dimensions, or was he? The Marriott in New York we stayed at was destroyed along with most of the rest of the World Trade Center complex during the terrorist attack on 9-11 so even if I’d want to go back now and check things out as an adult, to see if I can find evidence of tachyons or wormholes or whatever, I couldn’t. I did manage to find one picture of the pool slide, or at least one exactly like I remember it, but the hotel and everything around it is gone.
To David, wherever you are, I hope you know that you are loved. I hope someday, as remote a chance as it may be, I cross back over to another dimension with you in it. I hope it’s one you get to meet your niece and nephew. I hope there I made a different choice, and we went down that slide together. I hope it’s one where we both came out the other side.
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