On Saturday afternoon, Rachelle and I went down to Nathan Phillips Square to see the Toronto Outdoor Art Exhibition. There must have been over one hundred display stalls, and the work, for the most part, was lovely and often astonishing. After about an hour, I noticed a really familiar woman who looked like somebody I knew back at McGill, about 20 years ago. Taking a chance, I shouted out her name, and sure enough she stopped and looked around. I immediately ran over and introduced myself, explaining the context in which we had known one another. Her eyes did not light up, and it was pretty clear that she didn’t remember me. I added a few more details, mentioning mutual friends and connections, encouraging her to remember me, or at least pretend to remember me, but this didn’t seem to work either.
She seemed entirely indifferent, bored even, and I began to feel badly for embarrassing both her and myself. In order to deflect the mounting awkwardness, I introduced myself to her two twin daughters who were standing by her side. They must have been about 8, and neither one of them was remotely interested in saying hello. In fact, one of the girls even let out a yelp when I bent down toward her, running behind her mother and hiding. It was at this point, after spending perhaps one minute trying to talk to this woman, that I realized that they wanted nothing to do with me. Apologizing for my intrusion, I wished them well and headed off.
I wouldn’t say that I was humiliated by the experience (well, maybe a little bit. I mean, the girl screamed and ran away), but I was surprised. I mean, I was sure that she would remember me, and even remember me fondly, but this was not the case. She exhibited not a trace of interest in hearing from a witness to her past, showing no warmth or interest in the surprise encounter. She simply didn’t care.
It’s probably a flaw of mine, but I think I’m just as interested in my past as I am in my future. I had a good time in high school and university, and often presume that on some level, everybody else did, too. This, of course, is far from the truth. For many people, the past is an immense trauma, something to bury, and they want nothing to do with a face –that had not been a part of their emotional landscape for 20 years– that might conjure those embarrassing times.
I’m lucky in all sorts of regards, and I think I’m lucky to have crisp memories of the people who populated my past. These people are still with me. And so, it’s easy for me to look back 20 years and conjure Tanya Stephenson (not her real name), who was 6 foot 2 and had a shock of crazy, blonde hair that curled recklessly, almost drunkenly about her. She probably felt a little bit awkward, but she was smart and funny, and everybody liked her. However, each year she seemed to have a new best friend, a girl who was always stunningly beautiful. They would become inseparable, and whenever they went out on the town, Tanya would make herself available to the boys who missed out on her more striking friend.
That’s one of the things I remember, and probably something Tanya wishes never happened.