It's weird how much a name can mean.
When I was five or six years old, I really wanted my name to be Christina. I thought that was the prettiest, and that having such a name would equate to having a rainbow-colored glittery gown and possibly also being a mermaid. That's just what happens to people named Christina.
Kids with names like Bubba and Jeb have a different path carved out for them than kids who introduce themselves to their montessori school classmates as Zachariah and Llewellyn - who are themselves teased in high school by the Jasons and the Ashlees. Names mean something. It's not fair, and it's not right, but when was the last time you hired a lawyer named Tequila?
The importance of a name was cemented for me in high school. I went to private school in Georgia, which means I was surrounded by rich white people who had lived in the same town for generations. I guess those people eventually run out of inspiration for names, living in the same place for 8 thousand years, because a lot of recycling happens there (and believe me, not a lot of recycling happens in the south) - last names become first names, first names start to look like last names, middle names multiply, and everything is book-ended with numbers and honorifics. I actually went to school with a girl named Forrest (handed down by an extra-kind male relative, certainly), not to mention strapping young men with names like Mulford, Bentley and Johnson (heh).
These names were important to people in the south because they let everyone else know critical information, like who their momma's grand-pappy had been, and what buildings he owned (the name recycling extended to important landmarks, like highways and the local mental health center). Of course this public advertising of blood-lines still didn't stop some people from dating their cousins, but, we were on the Alabama border.
This past weekend, when I was back in the glorious south ruining Steeplechase (see other blog), we happened to tailgate next to a pretty rowdy crew. Four middle-aged women and one gray-haired man of indeterminate age and intelligence (he didn't say much and disappeared halfway through the day) had set up shop and were determined to keep the party going all. day. loooong. The ringleader, who started migrating over to our lot in the early afternoon, spent most of her time crowing such sweet nuggets of knowledge as:
"We're sorry, but we ain't sorry for nothing!"
and
"She didn't steal my third husband - I gave him to her!"
I imagined she had read these on a set of refrigerator magnets or embroidered pillows at some sassy southern gift store, but they suited her. She wasn't really talking to us - just yelling to the crowd at large - but I think she got her message across, especially the part about being "NEWLY DIVORCED" - which seemed more directed at my dad than some of the other comments.
Between the four of them, these wild southern women seemed to have had 27 husbands (though some may have been pass-alongs - do they only count once?), 18 houses and more than a few frozen margaritas. They ended the day by tickling my dad with sunflowers and then hugging it out with him - while my mom quickly ushered us all into the car.
Before my mom could close the car doors (and, believe me, she tried), this ringleader - she of the southern-fried aphorisms and the vodka soaked (but friendly!) embrace - poked her head in to say thanks for the fun time. My mom said, "you're welcome."
[silence. did i mention my mom is the only sober person here?]
Woman: "Are y'all putting up those pictures you took today? On the Facebook? They were soooo fun."
Mom, mentally: "The ones of you rubbing my husband with various flora?"
Mom, out loud, "Oh...I don't really DO Facebook."
[another attempt at driving away, with or without the woman hanging from the door]
Woman: "Oh, yeah, I understand that. Would y'all e-mail them to me?"
Mom: "Um, okay. What's your e-mail?"
Woman: "Well, my name is Darlene and so it's...."
Darlene. God bless you, Darlene, and God bless the south, and God bless my mom for giving me the most boring name on the planet so that mean girls don't write blog posts about me.
1 comment:
When reading your blog I was thinking of the most unfortunately named job applicant I have have come across. The woman's name was Princess and she was applying for a job that would require her to repeatedly introduce herself to clients, when they called, when they came by, etc. Would you give your taxes to a person whose first name was Princess? My boss actualy wanted me to call in the woman for an interview, for fun, he had no interest in hiring her. The point was to see what a woman named Princess would be like, would look like. We all expected her to walk in the door with a tiara on, perhaps a cape, a scepter, a small dog. Well, despite the perfect professionalism with which I offered her the interview, she never showed up. Boo! She probably got kidnapped by a dragon or something.
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