Our eldest has an amazing memory. By the time she was five, she knew the name of every single kid in her nursery school, over one hundred children.
"Who's that little boy?" I would ask, pointing to a child I vaguely recognized from a class two years under hers.
"That's Tatsuya."
"And his last name?"
"Morioka."
"Doesn't he have a baby sister who's just started nursery school?"
"Yep. She's two."
"And what's her name?"
"Yurie."
I tested her frequently, and found that she could correctly name every single child, from the six year olds in the most advanced class to the merest babies who had just entered the school. She got a new boy's name wrong once (his mother later assured me that almost everyone in the school confused him with his cousin) and was mortified for a whole week. She knew all the teachers' names, too.
I found this skill of hers incredible. As a teacher, I had a tough time with names. I once had fifty-three students in a beginning English class and over one third of them seemed to be named Nguyen. Trying to remember who was and wasn't a Nguyen was hellish; getting the pronunciation right was almost easier. I had to assure my students, however, that it wasn't just my lack of familiarity with Vietnamese names that made me so forgetful. If they'd all been Smith, Jones and White, I might not have struggled with the pronunciation so much, but remembering who was who would still have been a futile effort.
My child's ability to remember names, I believe, comes from my father. Although he wasn't a brilliant man, my father could give you the Latin and common name of just about any plant you could think of. He once enrolled in a plant identication class and came home after his first lesson a little shame-faced. The teacher had called him back as he was leaving the classroom. "Mr Witzl, would you like to teach this class?" he'd asked. My father knew he couldn't have taught the class, but he was ahead of the teacher in one respect: he had all the names down pat.
Just for the fun of it, I taught our eldest all the Japanese names of the plants in our garden. Hydrangea, rose, spirea, zinnia, morning glory -- she had them all, and her pronunciation was perfect. One day when she was three, I was walking her home from nursery school when we passed another woman and her daughter. The woman was carrying a potted hydrangea in a plastic bag over the handles of her bicycle, and as she passed us, she looked us up and down. Pointing a finger at us she turned to her little girl and said "Gaijin." This means "foreigner" in Japanese, and is not viewed as overly polite. Clearly, she was pointing out to her daughter what we were -- our correct label -- just as she might point out a fox, a pine tree, a tractor.
My three year old didn't miss a beat. Pointing back at the woman, she called out in a clear and confident voice "Ajisai." Hydrangea.
I will never forget the expression on the woman's face; I consider that memory one of my most precious souvenirs from Japan.
