As I was driving the kids to school this morning, a typical sarcastic spout took a negative turn in our car, and I found myself....I won’t say outwitted, because I refuse to ever be, but I was just a bit ....*blah*....with the whole schtick, so I stopped talking to the offspring I created, both physically and whatever it is that controls the sarcastic gene. This gave me time to just think and have wandering thoughts and be silent for ten minutes.
Nice! I honestly might take this up as my next hobby. I hope it lasts longer than my stint in scrap-booking or hot yoga did.
Nice! I honestly might take this up as my next hobby. I hope it lasts longer than my stint in scrap-booking or hot yoga did.
As the last child dragged her wet sneakers out of the backseat, each foot seeminly weighing in at a hefty 600 pounds, slinging her heavy backpack to the hump day drudgery that awaited her, I waved her off and stomped on the gas pedal. Have a good day honey, now get out. Frankly, I had found myself enjoying the quiet and I wanted more of it.
The mental wandering got me thinking about nothing. 20 minutes prior to, I muttered to myself, but loud enough for the kids to hear my intoned guilt, exhaustedly, “Fine, I’ll just be the chauffeur today”, cuing my children that they were on a very thin line of making me feel pretty undesirable right about now. Somehow that led me to the motherly ultimate question, “who am I?”
Okay, not that I’m always this prolific at 8 AM, but for whatever reason, the topic of names came to me. Who am I, as in what name I go by, came to me. NameS to be more specific.
Okay, not that I’m always this prolific at 8 AM, but for whatever reason, the topic of names came to me. Who am I, as in what name I go by, came to me. NameS to be more specific.
Before I actually materialized in this world, inutero, I’m sure I was named “Surprise” for awhile. That gave way, eventually to “The Baby” and somewhere along the line, my parent’s faith would have them believe “Blessing” was in order.
In my family, my parent’s had the rule, mom would name the girls, dad would name the boys. Yay for sexist ruling of the 70‘s. Upon my arrival, “Eugene” had to be retired (thank God!) and I was “Girl” for a minute. I would have been “Danielle”, but my mother had a friend who took that name from my family and named her child that 12 days before at her own daughter’s birth. This put my mother into a tailspin of unsuredness. My father settled on “Theresa”, after the nun who would be named my Godmother, ironically. Mom said I didn’t look like a Theresao, so she had to come up with something better. Fast (Dad had no patience).
My mom, given to whims of verbal play and since my birthday was in late spring, almost went for the folly of “April May” (oh, the therapy we nearly avoided!) but settled instead on “Cherie Lynne”.
What most people, even some friends, don’t know, is that my mother actually named me “Cherie”, pronounced “Sha-Ree”; the French, pretty version of “Cherie”. No one in my entire life ever called me by this, except for one friend of my grandmother’s. When I see her, to this day, she still calls me “Sha-Ree”. I tend not to punch little old ladies, so I let her get away with this trick that would have me throat throttling anyone else who tried. I don’t feel like a “Sha-Ree”, I’m not Frenchy feeling and sexy like a “Sha-Ree” would be. I don’t smoke long handled cigarettes or set me paint easel in the cobblestone streets. I do eat croissants however, so maybe there’s something to it.
If my mom named me “Sha-Ree” I don’t know why she never called me that. I don’t know when she decided it wasn’t worth the trouble and just Americanized me in one fell swoop. Knowing my mom, she was too tired to put in the French effort out of fear she’d be enslaved to talking in an accent for the rest of her life. I was probably destined for Cherie before the belly button stump fell off.
In the moment I became “Cherie”, I subsequently also became “5th Child of Jack & Helen”, “The Baby of the Family”, “Little Sister”, “Daughter”, “Granddaughter”, and “Youngest Cousin in this Generation”. These are names that have never left me, to this day.
Growing up, I had no nicknames to my knowledge. I know a brother referred to me as “Embarrassment” but that was more due to his teenage self coming to terms with the fact I was a by-product of our parent’s having sex. Thankfully I never went by the name “Bed Wetter” or “Booger Eater”. In today’s Toddlers and Tiaras world, I can assure you I never went by “Princess” or the like, not even for Halloween. I was probably more of a tomboy; I do not remember a summer that didn’t have me picking off scabs on my knees. I spent my childhood not caring about a single thing as long as I could ride my Hot Wheels plastic trike to the point of wearing out the big black tires. One year I purposely tied one end of a rope to my trike and the other end to my Barbie Tour Bus, fully loaded with the voluptuous blonde there’s-no-way-I-can-ever-live-up-to-this role models and took the sharp turn at the end of the block over and over again until I got the right speed down in order to catapult each and every Barbie out of it and break the bus in the process. *Damian’s work here is done. This house is clean.*
In my family, my parent’s had the rule, mom would name the girls, dad would name the boys. Yay for sexist ruling of the 70‘s. Upon my arrival, “Eugene” had to be retired (thank God!) and I was “Girl” for a minute. I would have been “Danielle”, but my mother had a friend who took that name from my family and named her child that 12 days before at her own daughter’s birth. This put my mother into a tailspin of unsuredness. My father settled on “Theresa”, after the nun who would be named my Godmother, ironically. Mom said I didn’t look like a Theresao, so she had to come up with something better. Fast (Dad had no patience).
My mom, given to whims of verbal play and since my birthday was in late spring, almost went for the folly of “April May” (oh, the therapy we nearly avoided!) but settled instead on “Cherie Lynne”.
What most people, even some friends, don’t know, is that my mother actually named me “Cherie”, pronounced “Sha-Ree”; the French, pretty version of “Cherie”. No one in my entire life ever called me by this, except for one friend of my grandmother’s. When I see her, to this day, she still calls me “Sha-Ree”. I tend not to punch little old ladies, so I let her get away with this trick that would have me throat throttling anyone else who tried. I don’t feel like a “Sha-Ree”, I’m not Frenchy feeling and sexy like a “Sha-Ree” would be. I don’t smoke long handled cigarettes or set me paint easel in the cobblestone streets. I do eat croissants however, so maybe there’s something to it.
If my mom named me “Sha-Ree” I don’t know why she never called me that. I don’t know when she decided it wasn’t worth the trouble and just Americanized me in one fell swoop. Knowing my mom, she was too tired to put in the French effort out of fear she’d be enslaved to talking in an accent for the rest of her life. I was probably destined for Cherie before the belly button stump fell off.
In the moment I became “Cherie”, I subsequently also became “5th Child of Jack & Helen”, “The Baby of the Family”, “Little Sister”, “Daughter”, “Granddaughter”, and “Youngest Cousin in this Generation”. These are names that have never left me, to this day.
Growing up, I had no nicknames to my knowledge. I know a brother referred to me as “Embarrassment” but that was more due to his teenage self coming to terms with the fact I was a by-product of our parent’s having sex. Thankfully I never went by the name “Bed Wetter” or “Booger Eater”. In today’s Toddlers and Tiaras world, I can assure you I never went by “Princess” or the like, not even for Halloween. I was probably more of a tomboy; I do not remember a summer that didn’t have me picking off scabs on my knees. I spent my childhood not caring about a single thing as long as I could ride my Hot Wheels plastic trike to the point of wearing out the big black tires. One year I purposely tied one end of a rope to my trike and the other end to my Barbie Tour Bus, fully loaded with the voluptuous blonde there’s-no-way-I-can-ever-live-up-to-this role models and took the sharp turn at the end of the block over and over again until I got the right speed down in order to catapult each and every Barbie out of it and break the bus in the process. *Damian’s work here is done. This house is clean.*
Upon getting to junior high, my dark looks and black hair led a loud boy to dub me “Squaw” for a few years. Given my real Native American lineage, I guess he would’ve been more amused if that had bothered me. It didn’t. To the point I didn’t even notice either when eventually that name dropped from existence.
In high school, my then boyfriend’s big rusted out blue pick up truck led socially awkward horny stupid bro-friends of his to call me “Heavy Chevy” for a time being. I never understood this; at first I thought it was them insinuating I was husky and overweight. My boyfriend assured me it was in reference to us getting “heavy” in the “Chevy.” I still didn’t understand it, and figured all boys were just stupid. Side-note: The lad who started this obnoxious nickname, flunked out of high school. I guess “Correct” could be added to my monikers (see aforementioned stupid reference).
Throughout high school, I was of course temporarily at times called “Girlfriend” and then “Ex Girlfriend”. I was a few times called “Funny”, or “Cute”. I was dubbed “Shy” by some, “Loud” by the next. Many years later, I laughed at the man who first seriously called me “Hot”. I still shake my head when my husband calls me “Sexy.” It makes as little sense to me as all the others.
I became “Graduate” in the early 90’s. For awhile I was “Socially College Student” but after a few years I named myself “Drop Out” (See “Working Stiff”) and moved back home to become “Fiance” and then eventually “Wife”. I had previously turned my head to the names of “Horseback Trail Lead”, “Bank Teller”, and several times over as “Assistant Manager”, always “Responsible” and “Level Headed”.
“Bride” lead into “Newlywed” which lasted only a little while, and as time passed, “Wife” (Look up “Grocery Shopper”, “Coupon Clipper”, “Cleaner” and “Endless Toilt Paper Re-Stocker”) turned into “Mother” (see also, “Mom”, “Mommy”, “Ma”, “Mama”, “Chauffeur”, “Maid”, “Chef” and “Laundry Aide”.) I’ve been “Cher” a few times over to some friends, most of whom only said it when it was too difficult to drunkenly add on the ‘ie’.
“Bride” lead into “Newlywed” which lasted only a little while, and as time passed, “Wife” (Look up “Grocery Shopper”, “Coupon Clipper”, “Cleaner” and “Endless Toilt Paper Re-Stocker”) turned into “Mother” (see also, “Mom”, “Mommy”, “Ma”, “Mama”, “Chauffeur”, “Maid”, “Chef” and “Laundry Aide”.) I’ve been “Cher” a few times over to some friends, most of whom only said it when it was too difficult to drunkenly add on the ‘ie’.
I was “Awesome Bartender” (“The One With the Fuck Me Eyes”) when it was as easy time in my life to be a bartender and a few people threw “Best Shot Maker in Town” out there. I’m pretty sure that was a compliment, but they were drunk by then, so who knows. During this time I heard a lot of different names, most in good fun. I’d like to think the man who punched his wife in the face that night right in front of my eyes tells his grandkids I’m “That Bitch Who Thought She Was Something Special When She Slammed Me Into The Dart Machine” (See also “Winner”). When I got offered $50 to flash a guy in the bar, I hope he refers to me somewhere today as “That Ballsy Lady Who Told Me They Were Surely Worth $100....Each”. (I’ve never gone by “Girl Gone Wild”, what can I say?)
I’ve been called a “Good Mom” and a “Bad Mom”. “Too Fat” and “Too Skinny”. “Smart” and “Stupid”. I’ve toggled between “Rights Activist” and “Fag Hag”. It has been requested of me from time to time that I take on a roll of “Nympho” but am always required to be more “Motherly” when someone around me has a runny nose (and not necessarily just the kids). I am the official “Tour Guide”, “Planner” and “Packer” (“Bears Fan” for those of you who follow football, tyvm) when it comes to any family vacation. I’ve been “Juror # 8” and once was a “Defendant” in a court case.
I’ve been called a “Good Mom” and a “Bad Mom”. “Too Fat” and “Too Skinny”. “Smart” and “Stupid”. I’ve toggled between “Rights Activist” and “Fag Hag”. It has been requested of me from time to time that I take on a roll of “Nympho” but am always required to be more “Motherly” when someone around me has a runny nose (and not necessarily just the kids). I am the official “Tour Guide”, “Planner” and “Packer” (“Bears Fan” for those of you who follow football, tyvm) when it comes to any family vacation. I’ve been “Juror # 8” and once was a “Defendant” in a court case.
I have spent time being “Home & School President”, “School Board Member”, “Artist”, “Baker” or “Blood & Plasma Donator”. By the time I was “Divorcee”, I simultaneously was “Secretary” at work and “Single Mom” (AKA “Juggler”) at home. Often referred to as “Strong” and “Independent”, not I found myself hearing “Bitch”, “Prude” and “Whore” tossed my way more often than I cared for. “Cheater” was a favorite of my accuser for awhile. In reference to this, my current husband calls me “Jezzie”, short for “Jezebel”.
Somewhere along the line, this new man who had entered my life spent evenings inviting me into his arms calling me “Interesting”.
Somewhere along the line, this new man who had entered my life spent evenings inviting me into his arms calling me “Interesting”.
He called me “Funny” again.
“A Lifesaver”.
“Beautiful”.
He still calls me “Beautiful”. Everyday.
There are a lot of names that I’ve been called. A lot of names I’ve been blessed with, or accused with, depending on how you look at it. There are probably some I haven’t even heard to my face. There are more that encompass who I am, not mentioned here.
I realized something: It doesn’t matter what I am called.
What matters is what I answer to.
P.S. And yes, I do answer when he says, “Hey Jezzie, pass the bread.
He still calls me “Beautiful”. Everyday.
There are a lot of names that I’ve been called. A lot of names I’ve been blessed with, or accused with, depending on how you look at it. There are probably some I haven’t even heard to my face. There are more that encompass who I am, not mentioned here.
I realized something: It doesn’t matter what I am called.
What matters is what I answer to.
P.S. And yes, I do answer when he says, “Hey Jezzie, pass the bread.
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“What's your name,' Coraline asked the cat. 'Look, I'm Coraline. Okay?'
'Cats don't have names,' it said.
'No?' said Coraline.
'No,' said the cat. 'Now you people have names. That's because you don't know who you are.
'Cats don't have names,' it said.
'No?' said Coraline.
'No,' said the cat. 'Now you people have names. That's because you don't know who you are.
We know who we are, so we don't need names.”
― Neil Gaiman, Coraline
― Neil Gaiman, Coraline
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