“Oh, I don’t mind—Lee or Leigh, either is fine,” I replied.
“You must be one or the other!” she insisted. “How do your parents pronounce it?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but then paused. To my dismay, I couldn’t recall.
It astonishes me how long it has been since my mother passed away—18 years now. It feels surreal that the years without her are beginning to equal those I spent with her. My father has been gone for over a decade now. It’s unfathomable.
They say time eases the pain of loss, and to some extent, I agree. The raw, staggering grief eventually transitions into a subdued form, making it more manageable in the long run. When I dream of my parents now—which still happens frequently—I don’t wake up devastated anymore. Instead, I feel fortunate, as if one of them visited me in the night, a gentle “hello” from beyond.
Yet, there’s a troubling realization: as time passes, you may start to forget things you desperately want to remember. Take, for instance, how my parents pronounced my name.
I still vividly recall many details about my mom and dad: the comforting scent of my mother after her bath or the distinct aroma of my father’s leather jacket mingled with the smoke from his cigarettes. I can hear my dad’s hearty laugh, his exaggerated sneeze, and the sound of his voice calling for the dog. My mother’s voice still resonates in my mind, breaking with emotion as she sang her favorite songs or expressed her love before ending a phone call. However, the memory of either parent saying my name eludes me, hovering just beyond my reach, like a fleeting dream. My brain seems to prioritize the present over these cherished memories.
In the film Beaches, there’s a poignant scene where Barbara Hershey’s character, Hilary, who is facing terminal cancer, frantically searches through a box of photos. “I can’t remember my mother’s hands!” she repeats in distress. Eventually, Bette Midler’s character, C.C., helps her find a picture of her mother’s hands, and Hilary visibly relaxes. Even as a young teenager, I grasped the underlying message: Hilary feared her daughter would forget her, just as she had begun to forget her mother, piece by piece.
The fear of forgetting is intricately linked to the fear of being forgotten.
A friend recently shared a rather somber yet profound quote from renowned graffiti artist Banksy, which suggests that you die twice: first when you breathe your last, and second when your name is uttered for the final time. Perhaps there’s a third moment: when the very people who brought you into this world—who nurtured and named you—are no longer here. Who will remember my first steps, my first words, or my childhood temperament now that my parents have passed on? Lee or Leigh. How am I to know? Only my parents could definitively answer that question—or could have.
Or maybe not. My older siblings, aunts, uncles, and even my grandparents and stepmother are still here, piecing together my life’s narrative. While I may have lost my parents early on, I learned a difficult yet universal lesson: my parents gave me a name, but what I choose to do with it is ultimately my responsibility.
So how did I respond to my inquisitive acquaintance? After a moment of reflection, I thought about how my brothers, sister, grandma, and aunts and uncles pronounce my name, as well as what I prefer to be called. I had my answer.
“Lee,” I stated confidently.
I believe that is how my parents would have said it too. It would be nice if the last person to say my name gets it right, but if they don’t? I still carry the memory of my dad’s jacket and the sound of my mom’s voice singing her beloved songs. I have family and friends who will always remember me, even if some details fade over time. They are the ones who continue to say my name today, even if they sometimes mispronounce it.
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Summary:
The article explores the complex emotions associated with forgetting loved ones and the fear of being forgotten. It reflects on the passage of time and how memories fade, particularly those tied to parental figures. Through personal anecdotes and references to media, the author conveys the significance of names and how our identities are shaped by those who remember us.
Keyphrase: Fear of Forgetting
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