Last Friday, I attended a work event. For the first time in a long time, there were over 40 people in the same room. Oh, the joys of standing around, drink in hand, in a room full of people! The extroverted side of me was thrilled. (Take that, COVID.)
A while later, my eyes landed on someone I recognized—and someone recognizable to every person in the room. He is a prominent figure in many Christian circles here. And he is someone I’ve met many times over the last two years.
I have been in Zoom calls with him where I have introduced who I am to him. I have organized a walk in a nearby park with him and emailed him multiple times, and met with him face to face on that very same walk. He and his wife prayed over my husband and I once.
I went up to him while he was seated at a table and said a bright, big “Hi!”. I said my name when I greeted him too. (I know it’s hard to recognize people with half our faces masked.)
He looked at me and said “Hi!” without saying my name.
I tried jostling his memory again by saying, “I’m V’s wife.” And he replied, “Nice to meet you.”
Once that happened, I knew immediately that he had NO IDEA who I was. I was floored. I went back to my seat and told a friend about this and started trying to explain away his appalling behaviour, like: “I guess I never took a class with him so he doesn’t know who I am”.
I realize now that I was hurt. I still am hurt.
This past week, the question that’s been swirling in my mind has been: Am I that forgettable?
The answer, crushingly so, seems to be “yes.”
Life as a visible minority—as an Asian woman—in Canada is something I’ve been navigating ever since I stepped foot in beautiful British Columbia four years ago. Being a visible minority feels like something that’s happened, and is still happening, to me. There is a sense of discontinuity, a sense of feeling boxed in, bolstered by a deep discomfort and—dare I say it—a growing rage. Because this is NOT how it is supposed to be. My name and personhood are not forgettable.
“For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; that I know very well.”
At the same time, I find that this space, this “living on the margins” kind of existence, is one that I am deeply humbled to be a part of.
For most of my life, I have been part of the majority race in Singapore. We tout ourselves as multi-racial, but I think those of us who are Chinese Singaporean have never quite reckoned with how our words and actions (or inaction) have deeply hurt another person at the core of their being. I’ve been following @minorityvoices on Instagram to let these stories of pain, of being unseen and unheard and unrecognized, wash over me. Because, ironically, I too am like He Who Forgot My Name. I too am part of a majority race that has left invisible scars on those who look and sound different than we are.
These are scars that take shape in so many different ways—names that are forgotten or mispronounced; making jokes at another person’s expense; ridiculing another person’s accent; speaking in a language that the other person does not understand; being passed over for a promotion at work; not being invited to social events; and so on.
None of these scars are too small to pay attention to. None of them are too insignificant to a God who has made us and knows every single inch of who we are.
Ryoji Iwata/Unsplash
Perhaps, the first step toward making reparations and reconciling us with one another is to practice something as small as remembering another person’s name.
As I was mulling stewing over that unpleasant encounter with He Who Forgot My Name this past week, two other incidents during that same event suddenly came to mind.
The first one occurred when I was standing in a discreet corner of the room with my back facing the entrance. A voice suddenly broke through the hubbub and said, “Hi, Isabel!”. I turned around in surprise and realized that it was someone whom I had never met in person, but had interacted with in Zoom calls and over email and social media. Thinking back now, I realize that I felt delighted that someone had recognized me and called me by name even when my back was turned.
The second one occurred when I spoke to the guest-of-honour that evening. Again, I had never met him in person but had “met” him virtually over Zoom and via email exchanges. As I introduced myself and told him my name, he said, “You’re the social media person, right?” And I laughed and said “yes!”. It felt, well, nice to be remembered.
Amidst my anger and grief over being forgettable, I had forgotten that there were people at that same event who had seen and recognized me. I didn’t need to have a prestigious title or role to be seen. I didn’t have to look or sound different. I was me, and that was all I needed to be.
These two (wonderful) people I had never met or interacted with in person remembered my name—and that has made a far larger impact on me than they will ever really know.
One of my most loved passages in the Bible is the account of Mary Magdalene at the empty tomb:
“But Mary stood weeping outside the tomb. As she wept, she bent over to look into the tomb; and she saw two angels in white, sitting where the body of Jesus had been lying, one at the head and the other at the feet. They said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping?” She said to them, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” When she had said this, she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not know that it was Jesus. Jesus said to her, “Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.” Jesus said to her, “Mary!” She turned and said to him in Hebrew, “Rabbouni!” (which means Teacher). ”
Mary Magdalene is intimately acquainted with life on the margins in first-century Palestine. She knows what it’s like to be forgotten and overlooked. And of all the things that Jesus could have said to her when He revealed Himself, He chose to say her name.
In that name, that precious name by which Jesus knew and loved her by, she immediately recognized that the gardener before her was none other than the risen Christ.
Jesus remembered Mary’s name. He remembers mine. And he remembers yours, too.
To those of us who live, move, and have our being in alienating (or disremembering) spaces, may we remember that our Lord Jesus Christ remembers us, knows us, and loves us more fully and deeply than we can ever, ever imagine.
xx,
iz
a singaporean-canadian couple on serving God faithfully