Memories

A few years ago there was this girl who, for a whole semester, sat behind me in Ethics class. Or it could have been Theology class. My memories of this class and what I learnt are blurry, but I remember the lecturer was a Spanish priest who (and this is where my memory becomes particularly unclear) we called Father Juan because of his uncanny resemblance to the character of Father Juan in the most popular Mexican soap opera at the time. Other times though, I remember the lecturer not as Father Juan but another younger priest, who was also Spanish. To this day, every time I think about a priest, the picture that comes to mind is of those Spanish priests. I don't know why this is the case. For instance, in my last semester in university, I took Sociology of Mass Communication and this was taught by a priest, who despite having an African name, who despite being the Dean of Students, who despite me having seen him before I registered for the class still surprised me with his being African, with him coming to class in jeans instead of those priestly garments. So one day in this Theology class that might have been an Ethics class, the lecturer who might or might not have been Father Juan showed us a video of this disabled woman who did her own chores. The woman couldn't use her hands but did everything using her legs. There was this part where the woman was preparing an omelette and this girl who always sat behind me whispered to the person she was sitting next to, 'Don't tell me the omelette won't break. My omelette always breaks,' a little bit too loudly that I could hear it.

Now every time I make an omelette,  I remember that girl. And every time I turn my omelette over without it breaking, I hate myself for the missed opportunity of sharing my technique with her.