I used to have a memory that everyone else relied on. Want to know what you were doing five years ago today? If I was there, I’ll know. Can’t remember the name of your first grade teacher? If I was in your class (or just the same school) I can tell you. It’s always been part of my identity: The Girl Who Remembered Everything. But a couple days ago, I realized that my talent might be on the wane.
I was done teaching classes for the weekend and wholly focused on escaping to the parking lot. So the student was practically on top of me before I realized that she’d been desperately trying to get my attention. “How ARE you?” she asked excitedly.
“I’m good,” I replied, frantically searching my brain for her name, the semester she might have been in my class, anything. She didn’t even look familiar to me.
She threw her arms around me unexpectedly, and I found my nose pressed awkwardly into her armpit, as she was a good six inches taller than me. “I wanted to thank you so much for all of your help, especially about the advice on how to get an internship,” she continued. “I’ll never forget it.”
Right. And I once believed that I’d never forget any of my students’ names.