When I went away to college I decided to go by the name on my birth certificate. Donald had a different sound. It sounded more mature, but I never grew accustomed to it. By the second year of college I was Donnie again. I'm not sure when I dropped the last three letters and abbreviated the name to Don, but it fit. It also gave me the opportunity to say "If you spell it backwards, it is nod. That happens when you fall asleep in church." To this day, I am still uncomfortable being in a room full of strangers when the expectation is that everyone in the meeting identify themselves.
I keep it simple. "My name is Don Forrester and I work for Children at Heart Ministries in Round Rock." I've noticed that most people add to the script their job title (it is always one of importance) and provide an overview of their agency's mission. There is always one in every group that has an exaggerated sense of self worth and will ramble on and on. Not me, my name is Don. I keep it simple.
Irregardless of the name I chose to represent my identity, my mother always called me Donnie. Dad was able to make the transition, but mother never did. It never bothered me, it just seemed natural.
Over the past several weeks, as I've reconnected with a host of former classmates from high school, I've found it incredibly enriching. I've even had the passing thought, how did I fail to understand the importance of maintaining contact? It is almost as if I went away to college and never looked back. I mean, after college comes vocational pursuits and before you know it you are 67 years old and find yourself wondering where the years went.
I guess to some degree we all have a tendency to compartmentalize our lives. I remember the first summer following my freshman year in college. On more than one occasion I had the passing thought, if I hadn't gone to school I would never have discovered the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer. I was mesmerized by learning. At least that was true in the areas of interest that were a natural fit for me.
That isn't to say I was bright, I wasn't. My freshman year in college I had to have a science course. By the time I registered, the only science class that was open was physics. I was smart enough to know that physics wasn't biology, but not smart enough to know it involved mathematical ability. Ronnie inherited all of the left brain function from our shared DNA. It is the only course in which I received a "D", but I was grateful to get it.
English on the other hand, was well within my comfort level. I remember in high school during our senior year. Ronnie and I were in the same English class taught by Mrs. Young. When report cards came out, we both got a "B." I was expecting an "A." In fact, I had carefully tracked my grades. I had a 90 average. I had also tracked Ronnie's grades. He had a 67 average. We both got a "B." It was the only "B" on my report card. I was devastated. I also told Ronnie he got the "B" only because he played football.
My random thoughts are taking me in a direction I am finding a little uncomfortable. Let me simply say, that despite the love we shared for one another, we were always competitive. It was almost as a quest for our own identity. In his own right, Ron was the all-American kid. Any parent would have been delighted to call him son. He was smart and he was athletic. He was the total package. I never quite lived up to his standards. Fortunately, what we discovered when we went to separate colleges is that we no longer had the need or desire to be competitive. We simply took delight in being brothers. I sure miss that guy.
Initially when I received a couple of Facebook responses from high school friends addressing me as Donnie, it felt a little awkward. I haven't been called Donnie by anyone other than my mother for the entire course of adulthood. My wife looked at Facebook and the reference to Donnie and wanted to know if I spelled my name that way or did it spell it Donny. I thought it was "ie," but I couldn't really remember.
Crazy isn't it; the things you forget? I went upstairs to find the high school annuals to determine how I spelled my name. I discovered that Treva had rearranged book cases (Oh the joys of having a retired wife), but I didn't find the annuals. When I asked where she put them, she didn't remember. I opted not to point out that she is the one that accuses me of being forgetful.
Yesterday morning before I left for work, I resolved to find the annuals, I wanted to know how I spelled my name. You folks were correct. It is Donnie.
The initial awkwardness of being addressed as Donnie has lost the feel of awkwardness. It is now as though it were a magnet calling me home. My mother called me Donnie. So did my friends from elementary, junior high and high school. I regret the 49 year gap, but please let me say, it is good to be home.
Carpe Diem!
Donnie