This week  has been an even MORE introspective week. As I try to discern, and weed out… WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON IN MY BRAIN, Try to find my Zen… and, well…

I hope you enjoy the show.

And feel free to chime in if you are of the same inclinations.


CONFESSION:

I have a strange aversion to seeing my name in print.

Do any of you suffer the same affliction? Does anyone really LIKE the name their parents chose for them?

Is there anyone else out there asking themselves, “What the hell were my parents thinking?”


My suggestion…? Don’t ask them. I did… and the knowledge has not helped the fact that:

I.

Absolutely.

Loathe.

My given name.


The reasons are multi-leveled. From the logic involved in the choice… to the repercussions along the way:

First, I was born with dark skin and jet-black hair, into a blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryan[1], over half-German descended family[2].

My mother was able to convince my father she didn’t cheat on him… after all… her mother, my grandmother, was ‘Indian’.

He made peace with his ‘dark-haired child’ eventually… The first step was to… well…

In, irony of ironies, it made sense for my father to name me after the ONLY Hispanic woman he’d ever met. (Indians lived on reservations after all. Spanish was the closest, so HERE I am. *ahem*)

This cultural misstep was further skewed when my mother misspelled the name. TWICE. Within 24 hours of birth. (Yes, I have seen the original birth certificate where the ‘a’ was scribbled out and replaced with an ‘e’. Thank you kind, literate, nurse.)

What was I saying…? Oh yeah… moving on to –

Third, surprise!:

EVERYONE.

MISSPELLS MY NAME.

It took me 25 years to learn how to explain how to spell it in the fewest amount of words: “No ‘h’, 2 ‘s’s”.


Fourth, and absolute CREEPIEST…

DO YOU KNOW what it is like for a ten year old child to learn that their given name means “the reaper”? This, of course, just happened to be when the retro radio stations were still playing the song… “Don’t fear the reaper…”

Yeah.

So.

As you may have guessed…

I have a serious aversion to my given name.


I’ve gotten used to hearing it. And pretty much answer to anything close… but written? And attached to a literary attempt?

Far Too Permanent.


If you still don’t understand.

I forgive you.

Just please.

Call me TC.

That’s the name I accidentally gave myself when I was around 3 or 4 years old and couldn’t pronounce all the syllables required.

Yay for toddler language skills.

Cheers.


[1] A little known fact: Aryan race was brown haired and brown eyed. Not blonde hair, and blue eyed. (Don’t tell Hitler… he still doesn’t know.)

[2] Officially? I’m a mutt. I am, in order of genealogy (smallest to largest): Spanish, Dutch, Irish, American Indian, English, French, and German. Of course, according to the actual genetic code? Well, THAT would be (oldest) Macedonian, and most recently? Middle-eastern. (Hey, genetics is a developing science… give ‘em a break…) Thus… based on my genealogy… I can only assume, I have Alexander the Great to thank for my existence. Whether directly, or indirectly… Thank you, kind sir. Your work is appreciated. (Well, Alexander and the Huguenots… the French Huguenots got me the rest of the way…)