Familiar Faces, Forgotten Names

Sometimes, late at night, when I’m too tired to do anything more constructive, I google the names of people I used to know. My searches are limited to those whose last names I remember, to the few women whose names didn’t change, to those whose names are uncommon enough that I have any hope of finding the right person.

I remember some names from grammar school, including that of my seventh grade locker partner, but most of the names from my college dorm are lost to me.

My efforts are most rewarding when I can find a picture; it is fun to see how people look twenty-five years later. Sometimes names are familiar, but I don’t remember the faces or the personalities. Sometimes, I know I recognize the face, but there are no memories to give the picture a story. Other faces prompt a surprised response of, “OMG, I’d know her anywhere!”

One friend I looked for was someone I couldn’t picture in my memory, but when I finally found a picture, I was like, “Oh, of course!” I found the class clown from high school (now a statistician and physicist :^), and I recognized him immediately, but another classmate didn't have a clue.

I also enjoy finding out what kind of work people do; does the geeky boy with the black-framed glasses work as a scientist or computer programmer? Is the girl who was such a good artist working in a field that showcases her talent? And as a lesbian, I always need to read between the lines, “Are any of those folks gay?”

This week, I found a blog about a friend's fight against Inflammatory Breast Cancer. The blog ends suddenly just a few months ago. I have found no obituary, so I hope she's busy fighting hard, and is still out there, hoping to share her gifts with the world once more. I had rarely thought of Suzanne in the past few years, and I have only a handful of memories reminding me who she was, but those sparkling eyes and that impish smile should have another 50 years to brighten this world. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is nasty stuff.

I remember a slightly chubby woman with auburn curls, but I’d forgotten the heart shape of her face, the smiling blue eyes, and the liveliness of her personality.

I first met Suzanne at the Peace Camp. As I remember, she showed up and slept there alone one night and wrote something memorable in the camp log. I remember people talking about how wonderful her log entry was, although I don’t remember its content. I think it was spiritual and poetic, all about the dreams the focus of the camp inspired for her.

She gave me a couple of bowls and a small pitcher that she’d made; she was an artist and a potter. I kept those for years, always carefully placing their earth-toned colors on my maple-stained bookcase.

I remember hanging out in the big house she and other women from the Peace Camp rented off Franklin Avenue. I don’t remember where she was from, or if she had an accent, but I remember that she phrased things with intensity and clarity.

Suzanne was close to her father. I was visiting a college friend in Chicago when he died, and I thought about Suzanne all day; somehow I knew that she was in pain, even across the miles. When she changed her name to reflect her lesbian identity, she kept the initial of his name in his honor.

We went camping together once, but I don’t remember where. Maybe Lake Maria State Park, although it was horribly buggy in the summer. I remember a night when I woke up to autumn frost and dawn beauty at Lake Maria, but I think I was alone that trip.

Vague memories, and not very many of them. When I saw her picture on the blog, I was surprised to see that her hair is now completely gray, but that those blue eyes, eyes I hadn’t thought about in thirty years, are still intelligent and full of life. I’d forgotten the shape of her face, the crooked smile when she was up to something, the warmth of her personality, but all that came back when I saw the pictures.

I wasn’t surprised that she lives in the country; we all wanted that back then. It took me a few minutes to get the joke – I didn’t realize she had nothing on under that apron – but I laughed at the playful picture of her ironing, eyes aglint with humor. Apparently “Naked Therapy” is a crucial part of her treatment!

The blog is full of pictures of, and comments from, the many friends who accompany Suzanne to chemo treatments. She is often dressed in the brightest of colors. Clearly she is very loved (that doesn’t surprise me – if there is anything that comes back to me, it is the warmth of her personality), and I’m glad for that. I downloaded a couple of pictures for mementoes, choosing the ones with the smile that identified her as the friend I knew long ago.

I’ll probably think of Suzanne more over the next few months than I’ve thought about her in 25 years. I hope she is still fighting, and hopefully winning. I wish her the best.

The web is ever-changing. I've learned from experience that it pays to continue those late-night searches. Every once in a while I am rewarded by a glimpse of someone I knew long ago. These glimpses give me history, perhaps a bit of closure, a continued feeling of community.

I am especially touched to find that we idealistic feminist activists are graying, mature, laughing and living in a world we helped change just a tiny bit for the better. We are writers, teachers, activists, mothers, sisters and lovers. We are women and we still roar.