Do I exist if I’m not remembered or do I not exist? That is the question.

I attend various social functions in my community and frequently meet the same women. One lady often sits at the same table with me. Invariably, she turns to me to introduce herself and ask what my name is.

Once, a mutual acquaintance turned to both of us and said, “Do you two know each other?”

The lady smiled at me, held out her hand, and said “Hi, my name is Rachel—”

Levy! I wanted to shout. I know you’re Rachel Levy! We’ve met half a dozen times in the past six months.

Once I actually did say, after we’d been introduced multiple times, that I believe we’d met on a number of other occasions. “Oh really, where?” she asked, smiling, but clearly puzzled.

“I sat next to you at this bar mitzvah boy’s cousin’s bar mitzvah a few months ago. In this hall.” She looked even more puzzled. Then she brightened. “Oh, the last time we met, you were wearing a longer, darker wig, right?” Wrong, but never mind.

I used to think it was my light features and fair hair coloring that made me blend chameleon-like into my surroundings. Then I thought it’s because I’m short, so others never get a good look at me to begin with. Now I don’t know what to think anymore.

People think it’s worse for the individuals who don’t remember. They say it’s embarrassing when someone else knows all about them and they can’t even recall the other person’s name. I disagree. In my opinion, having to pinch yourself to make sure you exist after yet another person has told you they do not know who you are is worse than having to apologize for a poor memory.

I was enormously vexed when I told someone I recognized her from the past and she looked at me quizzically and said, “I know you? You must be mistaking me for another Leah Roberts who went to Camp Shalom 25 years ago.”

“No,” I insisted, “we were in the same bunk for three years in a row. You always wore your hair in a bun.” She looked taken aback, since she did always wear her hair in a bun. Nevertheless, after gazing at me steadily for a full minute, she finally said, albeit apologetically, “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t know you.”

In another instance, I e-mailed a well-known lecturer and related that my 11-year-old daughter loves her speeches and has been listening to her CDs since she was eight. She kindly responded to my daughter in an e-mail that she’s honored that such a young child appreciates her classes. My daughter Mindy was delighted to receive the e-mail.

Six months later I e-mailed the speaker, reminding her about her former correspondence with my daughter and asking if I could obtain a specific CD for her. She replied that she has no memory of our correspondence and doesn’t know who my daughter is, but I’m welcome to send her my mailing address for the CD.

Was I hypersensitive for feeling hurt? This is a busy person who speaks every week to many women and has been teaching in numerous institutions for decades. Did I really expect her to remember my Mindy — or by extension, me?  

(Excerpted from Family First, Issue 615)