Random Thoughts and Musings

Just after I published my last blog (Thinking ahead: What is *cute* now may be *embarrassing* later), another of my social networking friends called to attention another baby-naming story.

WHY in the name of all that is good and loving and kind and considerate … would you allow a COMPLETE STRANGER to name your child anything of their choosing??? Yes, I get that you can have a child’s name changed later (assuming, of course, that there were no contingencies placed on the “deal” that would hinder you doing so), but is $100 in gas really worth the hassle of spending your time, money, and resources in getting the child’s name changed later? Better yet, should you choose not to correct this action, is it really worth your child having to endure years of ridicule first, then having to spend his or her time and money to correct YOUR whimsy?

For goodness sake, parents, THINK BEFORE YOU ACT!

Yes, it is an interesting story. It is NOT a story *I* would want to have to tell about *MY* parents. This story reeks of desperation, thoughtlessness, and selfishness. That is not a story I would want my CHILD to grow up knowing.

Congratulations to this father for winning the “I am a desperate idiot” award.

I spend a lot of time on social networks, chatting it up with people I may not ever have the pleasure of meeting in person. I find that these people have such diverse interests that I am often brought items of interest that would normally escape my attention.

One such item recently posted by one of my friends is this article:

Judge: Girl’s name, Talula Does The Hula, won’t do

Now, in my world, it stands to reason that this is not something you want to name your child. In a world that is well-known for bullying, ridicule, and ostracization, why would you even think about giving a child a name this outlandish?

I understand the need for individualizing, for making a name one’s own. My first name, Angeles, is very unique in the English-speaking world, and not-so-much in Spanish-speaking worlds. I *love* my name because it has a particularly unique quality here in the U.S., where I was born and raised.  I also love it because it ties me to my Mexican roots - it is mi abuela’s (my grandmother’s) name - and always startled people into repeating my name, so they are unlikely to forget it when they are meeting a whole sea of people at once.

I also individualized my child’s name. For the first name, we took a common name that had meaning to members of my family and changed an “i” to an “e,” and in the middle name, we added an “e” to a name that was repeated in my side of the family. The “e” in the first name tied the name back to my exhusband’s family: his mother’s name is Filomena and his sister’s name is Sabrena. Both are names more commonly spelled with “i,” so we felt it was a nice tribute to his family.

If I were to have a daughter in the future,  I would likely name her Christianne Marie, for my best friend (Christy Suzanne, but she always added “Marie” to her name because she thought it was pretty).

My close friend Aimee (Christy’s sister) chose the spelling of her nickname (her “real” names are all unique too, but she prefers to be called Aimee), and although not truly unique, it is different enough that people take notice.

Despite our interest in “unique” names or spellings, none of us would consider naming our children something silly like “Pilot Inspektor” or “Apple” (which sounds more like a nickname)  or “Tu Morrow” (gah! what were THEY thinking?). Yes, many people make these odd names work for them, and walk with grace despite the obscene teasing nature of children, teens, and young adults. Why, though, would you choose to make your child’s legal name something they have to explain five million times throughout their lives?

Be kind to your offspring. Choosing a unique name is fun, but please do it with respect for who they will be as they grow older. Finding a safe balance between “fun” and “sane” may be hard … but put yourself in that child’s shoes. Would YOU want to be beat up just because of your name? Just some things to think about before putting that name down on the solid line:

1. Can you ensure that your child will grow up with the confidence and maturity at the tender age of 4 or 5 (when they start school and are no longer under your constant supervision) to handle the ridicule?
2. Are you positive that your child will love the name?
3. Do you have a solid reason for naming your child something completely off-the-wall?
4. How do your trusted friends and family react when you tell them the name?
5. Are you choosing the name for your own pleasure, or because you truly have your child’s best interest at heart?

Enough with the riduculous choices already. Creating a unique name is one thing. Choosing to name your child something outlandish just so he or she or YOU can be noticed is completely different. Do not be selfish … please, put your child first: starting NOW. Parenting is the most important job you will have … you create a life, then you shape a life, and then you send the living being into the big, bad, world. Please, send your child out with as much ammunition as possible: starting with self confidence, self assurance, and security that he or she is loved.

Have you seen the Bucket List?

Every time I watch it, I crack up. I *heart* Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, and Jack Hayes was great as the personal valet to Edward Cole (Nicholson).

Life teaches us all lessons - some lessons harder than others. The last few years have held a lot of changes for my family, both immediate and extended. In April 2004, my (step) Mother, Cyndee, was diagnosed with terminal cancer, with a life expectancy of less than a year. She had been fighting cancer for several years - first, with homeopathic remedies and alternative medicine, then with surgery (double mastectomy), and finally with extremely aggressive chemotherapy and radiation. Prayer was a constant and consistent form of treatment, the one in which she most fervently believed. She also tried to get accepted into a program at the Moffit Cancer Center in Tampa, Florida.

When the terminal diagnosis was handed to Mom, I happened to be in a position where I could pick up and move “home” to live with my folks [for the first time - I grew up living with my Mom & (step)Dad]. It gave me the opportunity to spend time with a woman who had a great influence on my way of thinking, my ability to form relationships, and my desire to be “good” in very basic ways. This opportunity was also extended to my daughter, who had met her grandparents, but had not spent a great deal of time with them because for most of her young life, I had been in the U.S. Navy and we had rarely been able to visit.

The house was crowded: My 17 year old sister still lived at home, and both of my brothers had moved home too, probably because they also felt the need to spend that time with Mom. Dad wasn’t exactly thrilled with all of us there, but anytime any of us older kids mentioned getting an apartment or house, Mom would say, “Oh, you don’t want that one because…” I came to think that maybe she wanted us around, that it made her happy to have all of us kids nearby and underfoot once again.

Watching Mom go through her treatments was inspiring. She did not complain, she didn’t let the pain and discomfort get her down. She continued working, she made sure she cooked dinner for us every night (unless one of us beat her to it), and she spent a lot of quality time with each of us “kids.”

August was a crap month - not because of the treatments, but because of Hurricane Charley (another story in itself, and I’ll blog about it some other time), and the loss of electricity for three weeks. The suffocating heat, the next three hurricanes, the destruction throughout our town, and simply not having A/C made the treatments a lot more uncomfortable and pretty all-around unbearable. Still, she smiled, laughed, and loved her way through everything.

Our friends and associates held benefits in her honor, all of which she tried to attend for a little while, at least.

During all of this, she kept trying to write things down … for Dad (reminding him of their love, of how wonderful he always was to her), the kids (what changes she noticed in them, how they made her proud), and what she expected at her memorial service (make it a party - celebrate life!).

Christmas time rolled around … and Mom wasn’t able to go to the family party. I knew. I did not want to know. I did not want to be right. Mom died in early January. We were so grateful for being able to celebrate that one last Christmas with her at home.

The next month, my Aunt Peggy - my (step) Mom’s sister - was diagnosed with cancer, and immediately afterwards, was diagnosed as terminal with a life expectancy of less than a year. She passed away in October of 2005. I probably cried more when Aunt Peggy passed than when Mom passed, because the numbness had worn away, my outer shell of strength had been torn apart, and my feelings were raw and agitated.

2005 was a year that tested my core values, reinvigorated my innermost needs, and made me realize that the path I had been aiming for was not the path i wanted my life to follow. Money, advancement, houses, cars … they were all great. I understood my Mom & (step) Dad’s need to push me down the path of success …. but it wasn’t a path I cared about. My only real desires in life are to 1) be a good mother and 2) bring happiness to my loved ones, the people around me, anyone I can help, and therefore, myself.

I may get lost along the way sometimes, but right now my *heart* is in the right place, even if I have to struggle financially. I am happy in the most basic ways possible.

What does all this have to do with the movie?

I want to know if you have a “Bucket List” ? I’ve always had things I wanted to do, places I wanted to go, accomplishments I wanted to achieve … but my bucket list items are the ones that will likely bring happiness not just to myself, but to the people I love.

The first three items on Carter and Edward’s list are, in my eyes, the most essential:

1. Witness something truly majestic
2. Help a complete stranger for a common good
3. Laugh till I cry

The other items are great, but fillers … and important to the characters of Carter and Edward. My list would include things such as:

4.  Teach my daughter what “pure happiness” means
5.  Travel through New Zealand
6.  Start/join/support a non-profit charity
7.  Spend a month (six weeks, six months, a year …) volunteering in a third-world country
8.  Grow old with someone special
9.  Become a “better” person
10.  Learn to speak a foreign language (Spanish would be good - my family is from Mexico)

What would you place on your bucket list?

I do not know how - being a Southerner, a military brat, and the daughter of a racist pig - I managed to escape the bigotry and racism of my family and background.

I think that the one thing I was blessed to receive in my childhood was the ability to look around and see that while we are not all equal, we can all still climb our way to the top of whatever it is we see as important.

My mother grew up living in a chicken coop - literally. Her parents come here from Mexico with two boys in tow and another on the way. She was born a couple of years down the line. By then, the chicken coop had plywood walls, shuttered holes for windows, and a “door” fashioned of burlap sacks. My grandfather worked his butt off, learned English, saved money, and became a citizen. My grandmother kept the children in line, worked hard to keep their humble home clean, earned money when she could by taking in sewing and washing, learned English, and became a citizen. Eventually, they bought a humble home - a mobile home. They built an addition to make it a house. They purchased the land on which they resided, and neighboring plots of land as well. They became, American.

My other three parents (Dad, Stepmom, Stepdad) did not fare a whole lot better in life, though they were all born to American parents who at least lived in an actual building. They all grew up in a poor community, on the “white” side of the tracks (yes, literally - our town was divided by the railroad tracks!).

There have always been stark difference between my two sets of parents. I grew up with Mom & Dad (Stepdad), who were financially secure, strict, didn’t go to Church, and were *privately* racist. I spent summers with my Dad & Mom (Stepmom), who were somewhat struggling financially, very lenient on their children, did not attend Church regularly (but did attend sometimes), and were somewhat openly racist.

How did I not hear the racist comments my family made, or recognize their racist ways? How did I grow up withoutu a racist bone in my body? My best friend was a black girl. I never understood why she wasn’t allowed at my house, or why I wasn’t allowed at hers. SHE knew, and told me, often. I just didn’t believe her. That *couldn’t* be the reason! My parents all had friends from different races, and my mother is MEXICAN for goodness sake! How could any of my parents be racist?

My first “wow” moment was when my teenage brother (my Dad & (step)Mom’s son) thought he’d gotten his girlfriend - a mulatto girl - pregnant. My stepmother’s first reaction when I asked her about it? “I hope that child doens’t *look* black! It can skip generations, you know!”

What in the WORLD? I could not believe my ears. I could not believe my Mom - the kindest, most generous, most open, most wonderful person I had ever known - had said such a thing. This woman, who had been the ONE person to consider MY feelings in all the chidhood turmoil of split vacations, split holidays, stepparents, divorce, child support … this woman had just said the *stupidest* thing I had ever heard in my life! Incredulous is not *strong enough* of a word to describe how I felt.

My second “wow” moment was a year or so later, when my Mom & (step) Dad came to visit me in the house I had purchased. Dad was going to help me install ceiling fans, paint a room I didn’t like the color of, and fence in the back yard. We were (amazingly) getting along really well that weekend. They had been there a whole day, and no fights - amazing! He and I do not mesh well together, so I was pleased. One of the fans had some unfamiliar pieces and wiring, so we decided to look up directions on the Internet. He went to my computer, flipped it on, and connected. A few minutes later, he came out of my room, rushed through the process of hanging the fan, then told my Mom & Sister to pack their stuf. I was surprised, and asked what was going on, but Dad just said he wanted to get back to the house because he thought it would be storming the rest of the week and he had lawnwork to get finished. This was *not* an unplausible reason for him - he is quite odd and has many quirks. I said ok, helped pack up, said my goodbyes, and sat down to enjoy my newly-cool room. Later that night, I received and email from my sister. She asked me who the “naked” black man on my computer was, because Dad had yelled about it all the way back home. I nearly died laughing. I could not believe he was upset over a picture! One of my friends - a bodybuilder - had some photos taken of him in just a pair of blue jeans, and *that* is the picture that happened to be on my desktop. I was proud of him - he looked great, he was sexy, and he had the most beautiful smile. It was a picture that reminded me I was loved, because despite thinking I would never hear from him again after I transfered out of New Jersey, he had not only kept in touch, but continued to visit me through the years. The fact that he happens to be a “colored” man? I barely even notice, if at all.

I get so sick of the “accidentally” racist people - the ones who do not think about the degredation in their words, the pain they cause without knowing. I get increasingly angry with my Mom & (Step)Dad, who seem to get more racist as time goes on (this could just be me noticing more, though). I am embarassed when my Dad’s second wife (my (Step)Mom passed away in 2005, having previously reconciled her own racism and found her “heart’s home” in a Gospel Church, where she was one of a handful of non-black members) makes off-color jokes, portrays her fear of being on the “other” side of the tracks in town (the town is no longer legally divided, but those who grew up there before the de-segregation still refer to the two sides of town as “white” and “black”), or talks about the “berry pickers (Mexicans)” she “almost hit” on the way home. I am angered by all of these things, as well … but find it hard to continue fighting the losing battle of “teaching” my elders the uselessness of racism.

Instead, I focus on my child. I grew up unaware of racism in a *very* racist world. I will ensure that my child is not only aware of the racism, but also speaks out against this dispicable behavior.