THE MYSTERY OF BEING

"The beginning of wisdom is to call things by their proper name." ~ Confucius

You know how it feels when you put your shoes on the wrong feet? It’s not exactly painful, but you know right away that something isn’t right. That feeling - that discomfiture - is the closest analogy I can make to describe how my given name never felt quite right. It felt like those mixed up shoes. Today’s poem is a bit about that.

“Susan”

THE MYSTERY OF BEING

Even before I was born
I was Susan. A being,
before actually being.
I was a foregone conclusion.
My father’s mother was a
Susan and she died young,
way before my parents even
met, and my Dad had this
”thing” about needing a
daughter to name Susan
so in some way his mother
could live on —
but, really, I’m just guessing
that’s what he thought
because we never talked
about it, never talked about
her, and I have no clue why
except that it never occurred
to me to ask, ever, and
when my Dad died at 59,
my time ran out too.

I never liked Susan.
I suppose a shrink could
have a field day with that:
Do I resent my father?
Do I resent my father’s mother?
Do I hate myself?
Uh, no — none of the above.
It’s just that Susan is boring.
I’ve been told it’s “timeless,”
but to me, it’s just old-fashioned,
like Helen or Hazel or Matilda.

As a teenager, I wanted to be
Theresa. Terri was a cool
nickname and when I met
cool boys at the bowling alley
boys with motorcycles
boys with long hair
boys that I knew I’d never
bring home, I’d tell them
my name was Terri and
light up a Newport and
sneak in a beer in a Coke can
because Terri was cool.

Susan is still stuck to me.
She sits stoically on my
Social Security Card,
driver’s license,
diplomas,
credit cards,
everything official and important,
but
in my heart Suzanne dances
in my writing Suzanne is free
in my being I am Suzanne
and Suzanne I’ll ever be.