I’ve come to recently realize that I thoroughly enjoy being a part of somebody else’s story.
During out annual department-wide quiz bee (the bastard child of 1vs100 and Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader), one professor spoke in front about her experience winning the game around 4 years ago. She told the whole theater how it was one of the most memorable experiences of her life and that she went head to head with one student in the final round. She then went on to say that she recognized that one student and that this student was in the quiz bee again this year. Yup, it was me. She singled me out and I was a blushing catholic school girl under the intense gazes of my peers. Though this memory was a fun one for me, I never thought it would be such a vivid and treasured one for the professor I lost to. Kind of made me glad I did because I helped make one of the most memorable experiences in her life.
Another example. During our yearly homage to my grandmother’s house for Holy Week, we met a distant relative who just came back from Canada. She beckoned me over and told me how I was the flower girl at her wedding 20 years ago. Being 4-years-old gave me the excuse of forgetting, but she didn’t. She remembered that I wore a puffy dress and walked down the aisle to sprinkle flowers for her special day. 20 years, and she remembered me.
There are other instances in which I felt like I played a small part in someone’s life. Although I may be a passing memory or an extra in their movie, I kind of liked it. To know that somehow I made their life a little better (so much so that they’d remember me), makes me glad. I don’t need to be star or a life-changing figure, but to know that my life touched them made me feel special.
I wonder if I touched anybody else’s life.