On Remembering
and being remembered
Moving through the halls during class change of the high school where she did her final teaching practicum, Miss Joy smiles at students who she recognizes and greets them by name. Their faces light up at being recognized, at being remembered.
Sometimes they beat her to it, announcing a jubilant, “Hi Miss Joy!” upon seeing her amongst the crowd of gangly teenage bodies.
Her face lights up at being recognized, at being remembered.
At the bubble tea shop down the road from where she often works, Julia stops on a Friday afternoon for a sweet treat to finish off the busy day. She’s lethargic: limbs dragging, eyelids heavy.
The staff person hops up from their usual spot where they can be found visiting with their coworkers (or maybe friends? family?) in between customers. Julia recites her order — it’s the same as always.
The staff person looks up from the POS station with a cheery look, “You always order the same thing, right?”
“Mhm,” Julia responds shyly.
“I’m going to try and remember for next time!”
A smile stretches across Julia’s face.
“And you’re a teacher, right? Next time I’ll give you a discount, too!”
Julia’s breath catches. An unfamiliar sensation cloaks her body, a feeling of warmth — bashfulness?
There’s a coffee shop down the road from their home that Julia absolutely adores: the atmosphere, the beverages, the muffins, the people. She likes to stop there on her way to work when she leaves a little ahead of schedule or when she starts a little later in the day.
Though she only pops by once or twice a week as a little treat, everyone who works there has become familiar — and apparently so has she.
“Chai, right?” the barista who always sports a toque and their silver thin-rimmed glasses remarks as they see her approach the till.
She nods, confirming the guess, “Yes please. A lemon poppyseed muffin, too.”
Her cheeks flush in response to the recognition. I’m a regular! she thinks to herself. Oh, what a feeling.
At that same coffee shop a week or two later, the barista with a ginger moustache and subtle smile guesses her order as soon as he sees her.
“Chai latte with soy milk, right? 12 oz?”
“That’s it! Wow. Thank you so much.”
A few days later, because it’s Friday and Fridays always warrant a little goody on the way to work, Julia waltzes into the coffee shop yet again.
The barista is sporting a fabulous outfit: a hand-knit avocado green sweater underneath a fuzzy black vest that her friend made for her (a fact Julia learns by overhearing the conversation between the barista and sweet elderly customer directly ahead).
“Does your friend sell these vests? It’s so lovely!”
“No, just for me and her,” the barista replies with an endearing smile.
I can’t help but compliment her fit as soon as it’s my turn to order. The chunky gold earrings paired with the warm tones of her bold beaded necklace stand out perfectly against the sweater and vest, complemented by her hair pulled back in a tight bun — exquisite.
To Julia’s surprise the barista responds by returning a compliment:
“You always have the best layering in your outfits. Actually, I wanted to ask you when you came in the other day where you got your pants. They looked so perfectly baggy and I have been searching for a pair just like it!”
Oh what a feeling — she remembers me.
The other night my husband and I walked to the grocery store for a little Saturday night errand. It was the night before Canadian Thanksgiving so we went late to try and avoid the likely frenzy of last-minute turkey buyers.
Upon approaching the cashier — a young person with dark waist-length hair and straight-across bangs that we often choose for her cheerfulness — her face lit up when she saw us.
“It’s so nice to see you both! You are my favourite customers!”
We were both taken aback by the statement in the best of ways. I felt an overwhelming feeling of joy-induced warmth overtake me — she remembers us.
These moments of recognition the past couple of weeks have felt anything but small. They have awoken in me this deeply fulfilling sense of being a part of something, of the importance of that felt sense of community and belonging.
This is a feeling I intentionally aim to create in my every interaction — especially in each classroom that I enter. I make an effort to remember each student’s name who I meet in a given day, even knowing that I may never see them again; because what if I do? What if I teach that class again or if I run into them out in the world, perhaps at the grocery store or park?
It is meaningful to be seen, recognized, remembered.
People often ask me how I am so good at remembering names to which I simply answer, because I try to.
I almost always add, I try to remember people’s names because I know how good it feels when someone remembers mine. Which was never untrue per say, but up until recently I realized that wasn’t a feeling I had felt in a long time. Though these stories may not involve being remembered by name specifically, it has become very apparent that they do remember me.
And oh, what a feeling.
I’m grateful for the student who told me they were so happy to see me around the school lately because they noticed I wasn’t there for the first few weeks and they were worried I wasn’t going to be around this year. Thank you for noticing my absence. Thank you for telling me.
I’m grateful for the teachers-to-be who I pass in the hallways who always stop and say hello; for the way they express their gratitude for my support; for the way they trust in me to respond to their questions and worries.
It feels so good to have the energy I try to put out into the world come back to me in this way. It makes the heavy days feel a little lighter. Thank you.
I’m grateful for my husband's enduring love — and for his silliness. Every day is truly the best day of my life with him by my side.
Please know that you belong here.
Wishing you a restful and beautiful weekend wherever you are,
This was so nice to read, Julia. It does feel so nice to be remembered, I think it’s one of the reasons that I have some local businesses that I love being a regular at.