Tell Me Who Are You? (Who, who, who,who?)

Here we are well into June and it's been two months since I've last written. When I started this blog, I vowed to write weekly. Weekly! It seemed so doable. I was so naive back in January.

The upside is that things at Silver Birch Integrated Holistic Healing & Consulting have picked up nicely. Better than nicely. These past months have presented me with an abundance of growth and gratitude. Thank you kindly to my clients who are my daily dose of inspiration.

This month marks the four-year anniversary of my Dad's passing. I realize I write about that old fart a lot. Truth is I miss him like crazy, and writing provides a means for me to feel closer to him. Today's post isn't about him entirely, although he does play a supporting role.

Karlyn. Kamela. What's in a name?

With The Who's Who Are You? playing in my head, I wonder what makes us who we are? What singular, initial event early in our lives is of vital importance in shaping who we are? Is it, for better or worse, the influence of our parents or siblings? Maybe. Somewhat. What I really want to know is, are we our names? I tend to believe that we are who our name implies we are even though this is not good news for me. I have railed against my given name my whole life. Not my 'first' given name, mind you, my 'second' given name: Kamela. The name just never felt quite right, and I wasn't having it. At the time, I wasn't sure if anyone heard my cries of mental anguish at having been so obviously wrongly named.

Until one day...

Right around the time I was 12 years old, my Dad had had enough of my complaining. What compelled him to (finally) right this egregious wrong and take action, I will never know. Nevertheless, something stirred deep within the man and he told me to get in the car because we were going to the courthouse to change my name.

Oh, hot damn and hallelujah!

I got dressed in my favorite outfit. Ok, I don't know if that happened, but I sure hope I took the time to get gussied up for the almost occasion. I say almost because we almost made it out of the driveway. I was giddy with delight thinking about my new name and what this change would mean for my future successes when suddenly the hammer came down. As I was listing my all time favorite names...Marsha, Jan, Cindy...my Dad interrupted me with, "Ah, Kammi, none of those names begin with a K."

"Yeah, so."

"Well you know your mother said your name has to begin with a K like the rest of your sisters."   Note: I have four sisters all whom have the initials KDM. Precious.

"Then I choose Kay."

"That one is already taken."

"That's the only K name I like."

"You can't have it."

This conversation went on for some time; however, my Dad was not a patient man so he put a stop to it. I was dumbfounded. Bewildered. Mad. This was my chance and I was blowing it. Yet I heard myself say, "If I can't be Kay, then I don't want to do it."

"Then you had better never bitch about this again. Ever."

He went into the house leaving me in the car to contemplate my fate. What was I doing? Why didn't I choose Kathy or Kate? I coulda been a contender!

That was the end of that, and I spent the next three decades of my life in direct conflict with what everyone called me. Until about four years ago.

My Mom gave my sisters and me our baby books. Being the fourth of five daughters you can imagine how scantily annotated my book was. It was a good effort, but you could tell my Mom was kind of over the whole baby book notion. I scoured my book for hidden truths about myself. Turns out my first expression was, "I see." I don't think I meant the "I see a bird" kind of seeing. I'd like to think I meant a thoughtful, eye narrowing "I see" as I peered deeply into our dog's soul using my powerful intuition and keen sense of The Sight. On the other hand, I may have meant, "I see" as in "Yes, and how does that make you feel, Mollydog?"

I found the real treasure tucked in a pocket at the front of the book. It was a small, hand written card. The type of card a nurse would slip into a slot on the front of a baby's bassinet in the hospital nursery so that passersby would know the child's name and who the proud parents were. Not a big deal at first glance until I realized that it did not say Kamela. It read Karlyn. What? That's my younger sister's name. How can this be?  I knew it! I was misnamed! Oh, let the questions begin.

My Mom had actually forgotten this bit of mistaken identity. She said that since they hadn't had a boy by baby four, she wanted a name that was a part of my Dad's name (but with a K): Carl. Oh, good Lord, that's not even HIS name. His given name was Douglas. Anyway, I was named Karlyn for "all of 10 minutes" as my mother explained it. Then this conspiracy between my Grandmother and my two eldest sisters went into full swing and, lo and behold, I was renamed Kamela.

This was foundation rocking news for me. I felt vindicated, validated and victorious. What, pray tell, was I going to do with this life-altering information? Sadly, there was nothing much to do. It was anti-climatic. I sat on it for a while. I pondered every possible meaning:  Does it change who I was? Who I am? Do I feel different? Am I different? I felt confused. So like any writer, I had to put my feelings into words and onto paper in an attempt to fully comprehend the matter.

Naturally, I wrote a limerick styled rant:

         There once was a babe named Karlyn for 10 minutes, I clocked it.
         The nurse slapped a label on her cradle, and rocked it.
         But the Angels stepped in, and said, "Not this little Finn."
         And they put the name in a box for five years and they locked it.

Is the naming, misnaming, renaming debacle over? Not on your life!
I still really wanna know...

         Well, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?) 
          I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)
         Tell me, who are you? (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?) 
         'Cause I really wanna know (Who are you? Who, who, who, who?)