baggage's Diaryland Diary

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You can't call me Ray

I used to hate my name. It sounded too foreign, too odd for the face that stared back at me in the mirror. My friend Jerry from elementary school (many years ago, in a town not too far away) called me "Tren" cause I looked like a friend of his named Tren. Back then, I didn't care that he was merely substituting one asian friend for another-or actually, I didn't realize it. In my mind, Tren was a cool name. "Kinda like Tran in Trans Am," I rationalized in my 10-year-old mind. It sounded cool. It didn't sound asian to me-and I liked it.
As I navigated the treacherous waters of puberty, my name took on many forms-all of them welcome. My friends mispelled, mangled and deliberately altered my monicker in ways that even stuck with my parents. I wonder now if it bothered them. i wonder if it bothered them as much as it does me now.
A few months before mom died, she narrated the story of my birth. How I was an accident (that much I knew). And how my father was overseas on a secret military mission (I kid you not) the day I was born. Sending him word of my birth was difficult (what with the secret mission and all), and I imagine he didn't receive the news till days afterwards.
My mom named me; choosing the french spelling of a spanish sounding name. She was probably thinking she was being clever and not knowing that it would take me almost 36 years to appreciate the unique identity she had bestowed upon me. I asked my father recently why my name is spelled the way it is and he didn't know. He never asked mom and neither did I. I wish one of us would have.
I use my full name now-right down to the little squiggle e�e over the last name. My middle name is my mother�s maiden name-and between the spanish-sounding first name (with the French spelling), the mexican sounding middle name and the spanish sounding last name, I sound like some sort of elegant poet from the middle ages. The effect is even better when the r's are rolled properly-kinda like Zorro but more syllables.
The older friends I have still call me by one of the nicknames that I adopted back in junior high. I don't mind this particular variation for reasons unclear. But one friend had a special name he came up with that i came to hate over the years. J was the only one who used this variation. But, everyone I met through him would use it as well and, after learning the story of my birth, I realized just how far removed the name was from mom's intentions (what these intentions were exactly are unclear. But, surely, J's nickname was too far removed from the mystery). The nickname started to annoy me and I started making it a point to use the proper pronunciation of my name when I would leave messages on his machine. They got the hint. One day I called, and his wife paused for a second before saying my name properly. "Oh, how are you...R?"
It sounded good. And now whenever my name is published (it's published a lot in case you think I'm being facetitious), I use the entire thing-even the squiggly e�e. If my mom was still here, I'd apologize to her for taking so long. I'd tell her that I love my name. That I love being her son. That I have no problem with my ethnicity.
I wish I could tell her now.

8:49 a.m. - 2005-07-30

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