You Be You, Boo! You Be You!

I glanced at a news article, this morning, that entered my timeline on either Facebook or Twitter.  Whichever the case, it was about an Aussie mother that was complaining about her daughter's teachers abbreviating her daughter's name because it was too difficult to pronounce in it's entirety.  Even written out phonetically, I had no idea how to pronounce it, myself, and I'm pretty good at doing that, if you don't mind me tooting my own horn -- toot toot!!

In the article, it also mentioned that the daughter felt embarrassed about being called the abbreviated name, according to the mother, but I surmised in the comments that the daughter was probably, more likely to be ashamed because her parents were f**king morons and couldn't give her a normal name like Mary or Sharon, but some hippy nonsensical name that can't be spelled, much less pronounced by the masses.

I shared it on my Facebook, as I do with many of the stupid shit I discover on social media.  It got me thinking about names.  My name is Jeff or Jeffrey, a name I detest.  Also a name placed upon me by my late father.  I'm not certain as to why, exactly, but my mom claims that she wanted to name me Jason, but was overruled by my dad who wanted Jeffrey.  Named after a fella he knew, I think, but I can't recall.  What I do know is, I f**king hate the name and I've never met anyone with the name Jeff or Jeffrey, who actually liked the name.

I would have much preferred being named Jason.  It's such a cool name and you can abbreviate in a couple different ways to still make it sound cool.  Jay or Jase are two cool derivatives of the name Jason that still make the named coolness.  Plus, any Jason I've ever met, seems pretty frickin' cool.  I used to work with one, in particular, who if you don't mind me ripping off a line from Ferris Bueller's Day Off:  He's a righteous dude.  Plus, you have all those cool actors, named Jason: Jason Statham, Jason Lee, Jason Voorhees.  Can't go wrong with the name Jason. Ya can't do f*ck all with Jeffrey.  There's Jeff, which sounds very much like a cat sneezing.  You watch!!  Next time your feline friend has a sneezing frenzy, you listen.  Guaranteed, you'll hear my name.  Jeff!  Jeff!   JEFF!! 

I recall the Rob Lowe movie, Youngblood.  A hockey movie that he starred in with his fellow co-star from The Outsiders, Patrick Swayze.  Cool f**kin' movie, but I was quite taken with the name Youngblood.  I often thought that the name would spice up the Jeffrey name.  Jeffrey A. Youngblood.  Alas, I never changed my name, for obvious reasons.  I never wanted to dishonour my father or my granddad or great-granddads memories.  Still a cool f*ckin' name, though.

Over the years, I've come to accept my fate.  Using Jeffrey A. Richards as my go-to professional name.   If I'd followed through with the film school, like I'd initially planned, that's the name I would have gone with, but I failed to follow that dream and instead slid into a pit of mediocrity.  Now I'm just plain Jeff Richards.  A plethora of people too god damned ignorant or stupid to spell my name correctly, so I've discarded it completely.

That little girl in Australia, whose name is impossible to pronounce, may stick with the abbreviated terminology, quite to her mother's chagrin.  Or perhaps, she'll discard it completely and call herself something completely different.  Like the popular singer from the 1970s, Engelbert Humperdinck. Born Arnold George Dorsey, the popular crooner, chose to become Engelbert Humperdinck.  What the f*ck?!?  However, as f*cked up as that is, he chose his own path, his own name and achieved much success in doing so, although I couldn't for the life of me, name any of his songs.  Point is, we needn't be tied down by the names our parents saddled us with.  Life is freedom.  Freedom to be who or what you wanna be.  Whatever makes you happy in this life. 
I like to say: You be you, boo!  You be you! 

We Three Kings

Growing up, one of my best friends shared my first name: Jeff.  Off an on, we were best friends, then bitter enemies.  Once we got into high school, though, we'd settled on being really good friends.  In the twelfth grade, the two of us became friends with another kid, from another school.  Ironically, his name was Jeff, too.  It was strange, but high school tends to be kind of a f*cked up time, anyway.

One Saturday afternoon, the three of us ventured to the downtown mall.  It's a place that I, personally, very seldom visited.  To this day, I still avoid the mall, downtown, due mainly to the cluster of homeless and street urchins that frequent the mall.  No matter the time of day, I do not feel safe.  However, as a brazen teenager, I was less concerned about personal safety.  Especially, when strolling the corridors with my pals.

In addition to all of us sharing the same first names, we also all possessed the same small stature.  Not weak, per se, but we weren't hulking testosterone-filled adolescents.  Average sized guys, but easily bullied if the opportunity ever presented itself.  On this Saturday afternoon, the opportunity presented itself.

A couple street urchins, as I call them.  Hoodlums, would be another name.  Peoples of questionable ethics, would be the a more "politically correct" terminology.  Today, I'm sure these delinquents are probably screwing the new inmates at whatever penitentiary they're currently incarcerated in, but at this time, I think they were still amping up to bigger criminal activities.  

I remember there were a couple of them.  Big and tall.  They definitely towered over our small frames.  "Give us your smokes!!" they commanded, cornering the three of us into a small alcove in the mall corridor, stuck between the A&W restaurant and some novelty gift shop.  I remember everything seemed to go dark.  I don't know if their size was blocking out the light or if it was fear warming over me, in either case I was fearful.

Being asthmatic, I never smoked cigarettes.  Neither did Jeff.  Jeff did, but they never asked him, directly at first, instead making the demands for cigarettes in general.  Of the two delinquents, the big guy in the rear, kept a look out, standing with his back towards us, his head swinging back and forth.  Left and right, perusing for security of any sort, while the big guy in front of him, standing over us, began drilling us for information.

Standing over me, staring at me through dead empty eyes, he demanded "Give me your smokes!"  I stuttered telling him that I didn't smoke.  He stared silently at me for what felt like forever. "What's your name?!" he asked softly, but menacingly.  I stammered as I told him.

He stepped to his right, my left, and repeated his demand to the next Jeff, who also told him he didn't smoke.  The punk stepped in real close and softly requested his name, just as he had with me.  "Jeff," he answered.

The immoral culprit did a double-take, looking at him then back at me, suspecting something was aloof.  He then took another step to his right, our left.  He placed his hand on the wall, posing his face directly in front of the third Jeff's face, as if daring him to strike back.  "Give me your smokes!"

Jeff shook his head, claiming he was out.  The hoodlum looked back at the two of us, who were staring at the floor, not making eye contact.  "And what's your name?"

"Jeff..."  This viscous prick, stopped, angrily staring back at all of us, determined that we were all lying and disrespecting him and he was ready to beat the living shit out of the three of us.  "You think this is a f*cking joke?"  Just then, his buddy tapped him on the shoulder, warning him that security was strolling up the promenade.  "You're lucky!" he said before he and his partner in crime rushed off in the opposite direction.

I don't remember a lot of my life, but I seem to remember the bad shit quite vividly.  I can recall every emotion that rushed through my body when a guy pulled a gun on me, in Edmonton, Alberta, aiming it straight in my face.  I can remember every emotion that I felt when I was physically beaten three days before my seventeenth birthday, by my drunken father, like it was slow-motion.  All the bad shit, I can remember the most intimate of details.  The day that me and my two friends, Jeff and Jeff, nearly got beaten to a pulp, simply because our parents liked the name Jeffrey, I can remember like it happened yesterday.

I'm not friends with them anymore.  I can't remember why...