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<\/a>\n\u201cEeny, meeny, miny, Moe. OK, you\u2019re Moe. Don\u2019t cry, your brother got stuck with\u00a0Sue<\/a>.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n
I didn\u2019t tell him at first, even going so far as to carefully remove all luggage tags when my parents would meet me at the airport for my annual visit to the homestead. But eventually it seemed prudent to gingerly let the cat out of the bag and hope for the realistic best, i.e., a shrug and a sad smile of acceptance. I honestly still don\u2019t know how he took it; I don\u2019t remember if his body language was mute with shock or I averted my eyes at the crucial moment. Other than a steady stream of perhaps-not-always offhand remarks which suggests it remains a sore spot, we\u2019ve never discussed it in any depth. It helps to have cultivated a reputation for being [pick an adjective] odd\/\u2018creative\u2019\/difficult.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s hard to gauge the importance of the name that\u2019s been stuck on the birth certificate. On one hand it\u2019s\u2014sorry, papas everywhere\u2014meaningless. On the other, it\u2019s your bloody name, innit. Tends to crop up on a daily basis. Gets called over the loudspeaker, machine-printed in junk mail, chiselled onto your gravestone. In my case, constantly misspelled or at least mispronounced.<\/p>\n
If I\u2019d been born Native American and followed traditional<\/a> conventions, my parents would\u2019ve called me boy-who-cries-a-lot, thanks to colic.* In my teens this might\u2019ve then become hogs-mirror-with-comb, perhaps finally culminating in adulthood with naps-on-couch.<\/p>\n As it was, I went from something howmanyofme.com<\/a> informs me only 28 other Americans shared, to a meeting hall of closer to 300.<\/p>\n The transition wasn\u2019t too great of a lurch in the small family unit of me and my wife. She\u2019d known me as my now official first name since the beginning of our relationship, the initials my parents had bestowed having formed a perfectly serviceable moniker that happened to appeal.<\/p>\n I retained my middle name as a kind of keepsake. My new surname came more or less out of a hat, like my father\u2019s, at least from the point of view of a zygote swimming in a universe of possibilities. (I know, a zygote doesn\u2019t do much paddling. It\u2019s more a wallflower waiting to blossom.)<\/p>\n My wife didn\u2019t follow suit. There\u2019s no reason she should have. She chose it; I didn\u2019t. Who could have guessed she\u2019d be landing on what was to be my maiden name.<\/p>\n Not long ago I started visiting my hometown on a regular basis via the local newspaper, which has been giving me space to write about life as an expat. Call it boy-who-crossed-pond. As a byline I chose my old name. It made sense, as my parents and their friends would be reading. I wanted them to be able to say \u201cYeah, he\u2019s ours\u201d should they be pleased with the result, without resorting to tedious explanations. (On the flip side, should they feel the need to cringe, well, tough luck.) Though pen names are common enough, it\u2019s an unnecessary obstacle in a conversation.<\/p>\n I\u2019ve also reverted to my given name on Facebook.** Not only is it easier to process for relatives who haven\u2019t been kept apprised of my idiosyncrasies, it\u2019s pleasing to feed data-hungry Zuckerbeasts white lies.<\/span><\/p>\n Ironically, as I have a bit of a lisp, my self-chosen name appears to be difficult to convey to anyone needing to take it down. \u201cFam?\u201d I\u2019m frequently asked over the phone. <Sigh><\/p>\n I changed my name about a dozen years ago. I didn\u2019t change it to anything as spiffy as, say, Mark Twain, or offbeat as Kate Winslet\u2019s husband Mr Rocknroll, but it met the main criteria of being different from that … Continue reading <\/a>
\nNot exactly a role model, but we all have our redeeming qualities<\/em><\/p>\n<\/a>
\nOriginal art spotted in a gallery. Afford it I couldn\u2019t.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"