My Name’s Maria, But You Can Call Me №15

No name. Name you forget.

I’m hypnotically drawn to these places, where witnesses of time and recycled love stand ready for yet another chance. For them. For me. Here, you breathe quirkiness. Oddity. And God I love that scent.

Stacks of dusty books next to exhausted typewriters. The clink of old coins.

Among the cluttered stalls and persistent vendors, there was one old man who caught my attention.

Quiet, unassuming.

He sold nothing but old photographs of random people, tinged with the patina of time, with a story written on the back — stories he seemed to know by heart. As I inspected the photos, I couldn’t help but wonder about them.

“Who are they?”, I asked.

“Read story. Look picture. Close eyes, ok?”, the old man said, in a not so fluent english.

(…)

“Now you know”, he assured me.

“What are their names?”, I asked.

He shook his head gently.

“No name. Name you forget. But story, no. You remember story. You remember face”.

Numbers in the classroom

It was first day, sophomore year, high school.

I was in drawing class, a realm foreign to me. I couldn't draw a straight line to save my life.

In walked Professor Mosca, a figure of authority with a peculiar demeanor. Perhaps it was his gaze, that seemed to pin each of us like specimens as he crossed to the front. Or, the way he began roll call in a way none of us expected — by number, then name.

“No.1, Alonso?”

Alonso responded “Here!” cheerfully. I wondered how someone could be so chipper in a Monday morning drawing class.

“No.2, Andrade?”

Andrade muttered “Present” without looking up from her sketchbook; she couldn’t stop drawing her whirling suns.

“No.3, Barboza?”

Silence.

“No.3, Barboza?”

…

Mosca frowned, unamused by the empty seat, and continued.

The time arrived to call my number. And name.

“No.15, Marmo?”

“Present!”, I said.

He told us, with a no-nonsense tone, to remember our numbers, for they’d become our new identities. He said he had already remembered our faces. I watched my classmates trade uneasy looks.

The following class,

“№1?”

“Here”

“№2?”

“Here”

A few absent-minded souls had forgotten ‘their unique identifiers’, requiring a gentle reminder to recall them.

“№15?”

“Here”

In the courtyard, during breaks, we’d be deep in games or chats. Professors would greet, but we hardly noticed who. Except when I’d hear that hoarse call, “Hello №15!”.

We became numbers in the classroom, numbers in the courtyard. Numbers.

The Aftermath

One day, six or seven years later, as a college student hurrying down a busy city street, a voice somehow broke through the noise,

“How are you, №15?”

I stopped dead in my tracks.

Our pasts cling eternally, they say. Well, here was mine.

Who else could it be if not Professor Mosca?

How could he remember me specifically as №15 after all these years and students? It struck me then — he must have had an extraordinary mental catalog. I was ‘№15’ from his second-year class, group no.1, year 1999. Remarkable, really. And unsettling.

I couldn’t decide whether to feel flattered that he remembered me or offended that he was oblivious to my real identity.

We spent a few minutes conversing; nothing remarkable about that. He was sick.

He passed away just a few years later.

If he were still around and happened to read these lines by some twist of fate, he’d see the author’s name and probably think, “Maria Marmo. Never heard of her.”

But perhaps my photo might ring a bell,

“Ah, yes. No.15, there you are.”

That is, of course, assuming I still bore any resemblance to the 15-year-old teenager who was once his student.

I wasn’t mad at him. How could I be? It was never personal. I was just a number on his list.

I can’t say what I felt back then or what I feel today when I recall those memories. I can’t find the words to describe the feeling. They certainly left a mark, though whether good or bad, I couldn’t say.

People have strong opinions about Mosca’s method.

Each time I recount this tale, people react violently, labeling it as abuse, bullying or emotional neglect. They say he should’ve gone to hell, to jail, to a mental hospital. That he should’ve been fired, shot, or condemned by his own students.

That way, he might have remembered our names — they say.

Yet, when I think of Professor Mosca, I don’t feel warmth or bitterness — just a blank space.

I tell you, if I were to number my memories, this one would simply be ‘Memory No. x,’ nothing more, nothing less.

Forget Me Not

So, what’s the purpose of this story?

Honestly, I’m not sure.

Could be it’s all about catharsis, or perhaps I’m just giving it my best shot at keeping you entertained.

Maybe I craved for you to come walk with me through the corridors of my school days and relive the identity crisis of a 15 year old. To feel like I wasn’t alone. That this story is not just a number in your reading list.

You must be wondering what moral it holds, if any.

I guess it’s about what makes us memorable. It’s not just about the good or the bad; sometimes, it’s about the odd. Who else could make a number feel so personal, yet so impersonal at the same time?

In retrospect, I find that the teachers who stand out most in my memory are the unconventional ones — ‘Luzu,’ who had latecomers perform salsa dancing in front of the entire class, blending discipline with a mix of embarrassment and laughter.

Sonia, a crimson haired geography teacher who wore her skirt high up under her chest and had this weird tendency to put on crimson lipstick that often extended way beyond the edges of her lips — and covered her teeth.

Think Pennywise after indulging in a juicy strawberry.

Then “Yelpi” — our physics teacher — could have easily passed for John Bonachon’s doppelgänger. He had two cats. I’d bet they both ate lasagna.

That which is unique in some way becomes immortal. Funny, how this is a universal truth that applies to every single aspect of our lives. Relationships, jobs, books, quotes, places, teachers, movies, brands, you name it.

We’re drawn to what’s different. What’s common is forgettable, unless it evokes something else.

And stories. We’re drawn to them.

Stories will be retold, long after the names have faded into the ether. Long after the people in them have faded into the ether. Yet, in these narratives, they live forever.

Someone will tell this tale tomorrow. About some professor who used to call his students by number. Maybe this time, it won’t be Professor Mosca. It’ll be some other name.

What if that’s the way Mosca saw it? What if he assigned each personal story to a number, and that number spoke volumes to him?

I’m not trying to justify him. I’m trying to make some sense of it.

He might have happened to see the world differently, and interact with it in his own way. But it seems he knew very well who each one of us was, only he decided to spare our names.

Could it be he found our names distracting? Maybe that’s why. He saw people, life, as chronicles.

Just as the motivation beneath this story eludes me, so does its ending. I confess I have no idea how to ‘end’ it. So I might just keep on writing until I find out. Because that’s what we do, anyway…

…an ongoing loop of beginnings and endings…

… so, for the time being, I leave this story not with a period, but with an ellipsis…

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it…