WordSisters

Category: Family

  • Living with Brown People

    DSCN0210I don’t think about it mostly.

    When Juan and Crystel were little I used to think I was brown. Brown was all I saw. It was reflected back to me in their brown skin, their dark-brown eyes set above strong cheekbones, and their wide smiles. They looked just like me, or so I thought.

    Except when we traveled to Guatemala, their birth country. While packing for our trips, I would suddenly realize that I wasn’t brown, and would worry that the United States would think that I stole the children.  When I packed to return to the United States, I would worry that the Guatemalans would think that I stole the children.

    I carried a variety of documents to combat this worry: Passports, citizenship papers, Social Security cards, birth certificates, even family pictures.

    On our last trip a few weeks ago, Juan and Crystel were 13 years old. I didn’t have to pull out any documents at all besides the passports. I realized that I wasn’t even worried. Maybe the authorities figured since they are teenagers they have a voice. And, I tell you, they have a voice.

    IMG_0673 (1)I don’t think I’m brown any more. The children aren’t around enough for the mirror reflection. Now they are off playing the flute in parades, running cross country practice, even trying to find that darn Pokemon that’s floating around who knows where.

    I’m white. These days, my conversations with my daughter lean towards – whether or not her tan foot and ankle will match her brown leg if she hangs it out the car. My son wants to know if he can have a girl over to do his eyebrows.

    When I see my daughter in the parade I’m struck with how brown she is. She is so much browner than the other band members. All long slender legs and graceful arms. My son’s smile can stop me in my tracks. He’s so handsome.

    Take care of them, won’t you?

    They are my children.

  • What’s in a Nickname?

    In Great Britain, more than 120,000 online voters recently suggested “Boaty McBoatface” as the name for a British polar research ship. The Science Ministry in Britain overruled the popular choice, choosing instead to name the ship after naturalist and broadcaster Sir David Attenborough. Although I loved the silliness of “Boaty McBoatface,” I wasn’t surprised it didn’t make the cut. But it did remind me of the power and persistence of nicknames.

    Some nicknames are just plain stupid and annoying like the ones I was given in high school. And no, I’m not giving them new life here! Other nicknames are mocking and hurtful. I never knowingly bestow those names. If I know that someone dislikes one of my nicknames, I try to drop it.

    But for me, nicknames are sign of affection—a name I give someone to acknowledge our special connection. Or they can also be a humorous name for a car or pet. For example, my ’67 Chevy BelAir was “the Blue Whale,” because it was enormous. Sometimes we called my collie Tasha, “Slosha,” because of the way she dripped all over the floor when drinking.

    When I was growing up, nicknames were common in my family, and my father originated most of them. They were affectionate (or at worst, teasing) and often nonsensical. I don’t know why he called my oldest brother, who certainly wasn’t smelly, “Big Barnsmell.” None of the rest of us called him that, so my brother tolerated the name with good grace. Dad called my next brother, “Sport,” which at least made sense, because that brother was athletic.

    Sport called me “Snickersnee” because of my sneezing and allergies. Eventually that was shortened to “Snee” or “Snee Baby.”

    After hearing my oldest niece call her younger sister, “Shorty,” I adopted that nickname for my younger sister, because she’s several inches taller than me. Stupid, I know, for a grown woman to call her younger sister “Shorty,” but I’ve done it for years and she’s never smacked me. Lately she’s taken to calling me “Shellen.” Aside from the rhyme, I’m not sure why she’s given me that name, but I’m OK with it.

    My siblings and I also had nicknames for my father although we didn’t always say them to his face—“Big D” for Dad or Don (his first name).

    It was probably inevitable that I’d have nicknames for my sons. I’ll spare you (and them) the dippiest names, which tended to be variations on their first names. However, during his middle years, I called my youngest, “Larry Bob,” which had nothing to do with his real name, but it sort of went with the goofier side of his personality.

    When our sons got muscles and grew half a foot taller than me, I began calling them “Otis” and “The Other Otis”—kind of like calling them, “You big galoot”—a teasing way to acknowledge how much bigger they are than me. So far, they’ve tolerated it pretty well. No doubt they have names for me too.

    Do you use nicknames for your family and friends? How about your car? Pets?

  • It’s Not An Old Lady’s YMCA Anymore

    3cb050fafa80ad3bf2fe1d84831c62e6[1]Maybe it never was. The last time I was there was over 12 years ago when the kids were eight months old. Even then all I wanted was to go sit someplace that wasn’t our home with them. But, they’d never let me leave the nursery. Bawling, grasping at me, I became content to sit with my back against the wall while they played with toys that weren’t theirs. That was no reason to keep a Y membership.

    A few months ago, Jody and I returned and bought a family membership. I had broken my foot in Tae Kwon Do and thought that I should check out other alternatives.

    Today, it’s not the treadmills, ellipticals, row machines, all Motion Trainers, stair steppers, cardio machines and more that keep me coming back.

    It’s the Boot Camp class. I can’t keep up with anyone. I’m the old lady trying to beat the other old lady in the gym who is wearing a pink shirt and who has declared that she is 70 years old. Forty others are also in this class doing the same rugged workout of sports drills, weights, jumping rope, boxing, circuits, and interval training.

    I’m always happy when the class is over. I’ve survived. I’ve made it.

    All shapes, sizes, and ages are welcomed at the Y. This makes it comfortable for me. Even though I’m chasing down the old woman in pink.

    I wonder if this was the way the Y always was? Or did it evolve like those bawling eight-month-olds who are now 13?

    I’m glad I found my way back. I’ll be staying.