What's In A Name

I hate my name. Tracy. It's an awful name. Brutal! It's a name wimps wear. Real men have manly names like Nick or Jim. Tracys ride bikes with baskets on the handlebars. Real men drive ATVs. Tracys fix broken computers. Real men work on cars and trucks. Tracys watch Home and garden TV. Real men watch football. Hell, real men play football! Tracys eat quiche and omelets. Real men eat bacon and eggs. Tracy isn't a name for a real man like me!

I don't hate my parents for naming me ... Tracy! I love my parents dearly, fully, but God I hate that name! I work for a living. I work with tools. I work on cars. I get my hands dirty. My hands are always dirty. Even after I wish them there are grease stains on them. There's grease under my nails. And they are scarred, strong and weathered. When I shake your hand, you know you are meeting a real man.

I suppose there could be worse names. Robin or Terry are just as bad, girl's names. A bible name wouldn't suit me: John or Mathew or Mark. They are manly names, but I'm not a religious person. No, they aren't names for me.

I definitely wouldn't want a Jackson 5 name. Tito. Gawd! Imagine if my parents named me Tito? I'd have been teased right out of school. Or Jermaine? Gawd! Or Marlon? What kind of parent would name their kid Marlon? I wouldn't want an Osmond name either. Donny would have been worse for sure. Or Merrill. I always pitied Merrill Osmond. Who for Christ's sake would name their kid Merrill?

I hated the Jackson 5 and the Osmond Brothers when I was a boy. We didn't think they were real bands like Grand Funk or The Allman Brothers. Those were real bands. Those bands had real men: beards, jeans, and cool! My friends though so too. We had fights over them. "You guys are as ugly as the Jackson 5's" would lead to the inevitable response "You guys are a bunch of faggots like the Osmonds!" Then we'd have a fight. Not a real fight of course. We'd fake the punches, but we'd really throw each other down the hill. We'd have so much fun. We'd forget about the whole name calling thing. Except me. I sometimes think they were really teasing me.

Actually I know they teased me. Mike even told me one night over a drink. "We didn't say anything to your face. We weren’t crazy. You'd probably haul off and slug one of us."

"Really?" I asked.

"Yah, but we didn't mean it. You know everybody got talked about when they weren't with us. We all deep down loved each other. We protected each other!"

"What did you say about me?"

"I can't remember. Probably something about your taste in music. That was a long time ago."

I don't know. I think he was covering his tail. I think they all talked about my wimpy name behind my back. Mike. Michael. A Jackson 5 name! I know he was laughing at me!

When my mom called me one day on my cell it really freaked me out! "Can you please come and meet me?"

"Where are you?" I asked, wondering what was up.

"At the hospital."

Gulp!

"... in the cafeteria. I've been visiting an old friend all morning."

"Is it important? I'm kinda backed up this week. Seems everybody needs to get their safety inspections done."

'Yes. It's important."

"Do I know them?

"Just come up. I'll buy you a coffee."

"You know me too well!"

"You can take a break. You have some good staff there. Mickey can handle things. It's not far."

"Yea I know. I'll be there in ten."

Mickey. I wouldn't want to be called Mickey. He's a good man mind you, but Gawd. Mickey was a Monkee. The Monkees were a bunch of faggot candy asses. What a lame show! "Hey, hey we're The Monkees!" Gawd, what a lame song!  Daydream Believer was too. We kids hated the Monkees. He's a good man though, nothing like that faggot drummer. Or that Davy Jones. What a weenie he was. Or that goofy guy with the toque. What was his name? Peter Tork. What kind of a name is Tork? Gawd!

Maybe Tracy isn't so bad after all?


                      -*-*-*-*-*-*-

"Hey mom."

"Tracy," she gave him an extra large double-double.

He gave her a kiss on the cheek. They sat down together at her table.

"So what's up mom?" he asked, eagerly opening his coffee lid.

"I have something to tell you."

"I thought you wanted me to see somebody?"

"I do, but I need to tell you something first."

Sluuurp

"I don't know how to tell you," she said. She was nervous and shaking inside. She wanted to throw up.

"Just say it." Tracy was enjoying his coffee. He hadn't had one since he started work, and it had been a busy day.

"Well ... you need to know this ... " She cleared her throat. "I'm not your real mother."

"Pardon?" He set his coffee down.

"It was 1960. You needed a home.  We adopted you."

Tracy sat in silence. His mind was racing too hard to think.

"Your parents were just kids. Good kids. But they didn't have jobs. They couldn't take care of you. We, your father, your dad and I ... We agreed to adopt you."

"Wow!" That's all his racing mind would let out. "Why? Why are you telling me this?" He sipped his coffee. It was now his comfort.

"Your mother, your birth-mother, is here in the hospital. She's not expected to live much longer."

"She's here?"

"Yes. I want you to meet her before she passes on."


                      -*-*-*-*-*-*-

It was a shock. Not only was my mother not my mother, but my real mother was on her death bead. When we walked into her room, I saw an old lady. A very old looking and frail lady. She looked near dead. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was raspy. I wanted to know what she looked like when she had me, but any hints of previous youth and beauty were gone, worn away by time and cancer.

We slowly shuffled up next to her bed. I just stood there.

"Gloria," my mom, my adopted mom, said in a quiet whispery voice. "Gloria?"

Gloria. What a sweet name.

Mom said all her family was gone. Her husband, my dad -- my real dad! -- had passed on years ago. There was nobody else. She slowly opened her eyes.

Gloria opened her eyes slowly and wearily.

"Gloria. This is Tracy," as my mom put her hand on my forearm.

She looked at me and I looked at her. I'd like to say there was feeling there for her, but there was none. This was so new!

"Tracy," she blurted out with a thin smile. Her eyes were now wide open and gleaming. "That's such a nice name."

We looked at each other for what seemed like a long time.

"We didn't name you Tracy, " she smiled lovingly. "Your daddy, your daddy's name was Luke."

A Christian name, but strong! I thought.

"Your daddy, he loved music."

This felt good. I liked good music, and my real dad did too. So did my ... adopted ... parents. Man that's a weird thought.

"We named you after his favorite singer."

I have another name. My real name. Will I be able to use it? Is that legal?

"His favorite singer was Pat Boone. We named you Pat."

Oh my Gawd!


                      -*-*-*-*-*-*-

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