Is still your man. But if your dad doesn't know his name...
Read on to find out what happens.
What’s In a Name?
My dad was a
great man. He was a skilled carpenter
who built his own house from the ground up.
He was an active father, cheering on all of his kids in their various
sporting endeavors. He was known to be
the center of attention at the bars he frequented even into his sixties—he had
one of those big, booming laughs that filled a room and made you wonder what
kind of story he was telling… because he was also the kind of guy who laughed
loudly at his own stories.
For all the
things he was great at… one thing he never did too well with was names.
It didn’t
take me too long to learn this. The
earliest example I can remember, and the most frequently recurring one, had to
do with our neighbors, the Criswells. I
don’t know if there ever was a time that Dad actually knew their last name. I believe he moved into our home around the
time those Chevy Chase movies featuring the Griswalds started coming out, and
I’d venture to say that if Dad happened to see the Griswald family on the big
screen before he met the Criswells, it was highly unlikely he ever learned
their actual names. Maybe, if he met
them before the Chevy Chase movies, maybe for a short time, he got it
right. I wasn’t around then, so I can’t
say. But what I can testify to, is that
at any time growing up when my father mentioned the neighbors, always referring
to them as “The Griswalds,” he was immediately chastised by my mother who would
throw up her hands, roll her eyes, and scream, “CRISWELLS, John! Criswells, not Griswalds! We’ve lived next to them for twenty years!”
This
injustice, at least, was mainly done behind the neighbors’ backs, as I doubt my
father ever found occasion to address them by their last name. With my girlfriends, the humiliation was much
more uncomfortable, as my dad routinely addressed them by the wrong names. Pre-adolescent and teenage girls are
embarrassed easily and self-conscious enough when no one in the room is paying
the slightest bit of attention to them, so imagine throwing into the picture a
boisterous, well-meaning, terribly loud, and completely unintentional and
oblivious father into the situation, who, for the life of him, could not get
the names of these girls straight! While
my girlfriend’s faces demonstrated that they were praying that they would melt
down into the carpet and dissolve in order to escape, my father would continue
jabbering on cheerfully, calling them by the wrong names every time the chance
presented itself.
He was
especially bad concerning two of my best friends who, understandably, shared
some physical traits. Lindsay and
Elizabeth (who went by the unusual nickname WizB) were both fair and
petite. And since Lindsay and WizB sounded
similar, in my father’s brain, I’m not sure their names ever stood a
chance. Dad frequently mixed them up,
calling Lindsay WizB, yelling for Lindsay when he meant WizB. Eventually, his mind seemed to settle on one
interchangeable term for both of them—he dubbed them both LizB and was done
with the whole thing. Efforts to correct
him were futile, and, eventually, we gave up.
The worst,
however, was yet to come. When I got
into a serious relationship with a man named Rashieme, I knew that this name
was going to be the biggest challenge yet for Dad to master. When Rashieme and I found out we were having
a baby, I was more determined than ever to make sure that this time, whatever
the cost or humiliation, Dad learned Rashieme’s name.
“Dad,” I
said, sitting down with him one day.
“It’s really important to me that you learn Rashieme’s name.”
“Machine?”
Dad asked, scrunching his brow and glancing at me questioningly. This was not the first time we’d had this
conversation.
“Rashieme,
Dad,” I said patiently. “We’ve been
together for several years. We’re
getting married. We’re having a baby
together. As the father of your
grandchild, I think it would be really great if, you know, you learned his
name.”
Dad paused
as though he were in deep thought.
“Well,” he began finally. “It
ain’t like he’s got an easy name, like Tom, or Bill.”
“Be that as
it may,” I continued, “I would like for you to try. Rashieme.”
“Rashieme?”
“Yes. Rashieme.”
Dad nodded
as though the matter were settled.
However, a
couple weeks later, I got another first-hand lesson that proved to me that try
you may, try you might, there are no guarantees when it comes to my Dad. Upon my request, Dad was moving my childhood
desk into our apartment. He and his
girlfriend showed up, rang the bell. Dad
greeted Rashieme with a smile, but, I noticed, made no effort to greet him by
name. I was actually a bit relieved,
figuring Dad would wait for me to say his name aloud to refresh his memory
before attempting to address my beloved.
The visit
was brief but friendly. Dad and Rashieme
moved the desk in, positioned it per my instructions, and then the four of us
stood around chit-chatting for a bit before Dad informed me that he and his
girlfriend had lunch plans and were about to head out. I nodded, giving him a hug and a kiss. Dad then turned his attention to Rashieme,
gave him a grin and a congenial wave, before belting out, to my horror, “See ya
later, Darnell!”
Rashieme
froze, smile plastered on his face, managing to wave back at my dad and watch
the apartment door slam behind him. It
was only then when he turned to me, smile still on his face, and demanded, “Who
the *insert explitive here* is Darnell?”
After
repeatedly assuring Rashieme that I didn’t even know a Darnell and had
certainly never mentioned one to my Dad, and embarrassingly confessing that it
was probably the only “black” name Dad could remember on the spot, my honey
rolled his eyes and accepted my profuse apologies before getting ready for
work.
When I later
confronted my father regarding this major disaster, he shrugged, and returned
back to the “Not an Easy Name” defense.
You’ll be happy to know that by the time our child was born, Dad had
managed to learn Rashieme’s name.
He even
learned his granddaughter’s—another “difficult” name—Kaliah.
Now that my
father is no longer here to mess up the names of my friends, the memories that
used to annoy me now only bring a bittersweet smile.
He took the
time to learn Rashieme’s name, something that most of us would take for granted
as a simple task. And for many, maybe it
would be.
But how
simple is it, also, to tell the people we love, quirky habits and all, that we
love them?
Just as
easy, I’d presume, yet some of us let it go day by day, taking for granted that
we’ll get another day to say the words or demonstrate our love.
Inevitably,
if you live long enough, you’ll lose someone that will make it clear for you
that tomorrows aren’t promised, and what you have to say today, you might as
well say it now.
And while
you’re at it, if you’re a dad… take the time to learn the names of your
daughter’s friends. And especially her
boyfriend. Trust me, she’ll appreciate
it.
