For some reason, very unknown to me, I have the ability to remember things. Most things. I can remember people who I haven’t seen since first grade in an instant and where I read a certain quote in a book, right down to the line and the page. I don’t know why. I usually don’t ask questions about that. I seem to ask questions just about everything else in life except for why I can remember things, people in particular.
But with that memory, it also brings up some awkward moments. I guess the word awkward maybe too strong, but nonetheless, I use it here. There are moments where I’ll recognize someone and say hello and they obviously don’t remember me. So then I have to try and explain to them how we know each other. “Oh you know, we were in pre-school together! We always played near the fence and pretended the War-head wrappers on the ground were real witches!” or “Don’t you remember fourth grade in Mr. Whitlow’s class? We read Series of Unfortunate Events together!” Often times they truly don’t remember me but sometimes I can see it in the way they flash they eyes towards my face, I know they know me. I can see it and for the life of me I just don’t know why they claim ignorance.
The fact that people pretend to not know other people fascinates me. For years I have had trouble understand why someone would do that. Pride? Embarrassment? The fear of being too creepy? I just don’t understand.
But recently I ran into a person who I hadn’t seen in a very long time and they greeted me in the way I tend to greet others. They were excited and asked me if I remembered them and to my own surprise I said no. But the thing is, I did remember them. But I still said no? Why would I have done that? Why would I have done exactly what I hated others doing?
Maybe I did that for the same reason I turn my eyes away when someone who has been crying makes eye contact with me. Or maybe I did that for the same reason that I always lie and tell others I threw up the first time I ever had sushi.
The more I look into myself and my motives for why I do certain things, I come to a tall and wide brick wall plastered with red. There are giant stop signs on the wall and if I’m not mistaken, the red streaks are blood, not paint. But whose blood? My blood? Their blood? His blood? I can never really be sure.
Maybe I pretended not to know that person because some days I pretend to not even know the very person who formed me inside my mother’s womb.
Maybe it’s just because I pretend to know myself.
“For I do no understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.” Romans 7:15