In the south, a few white women have my name-some have made sure to tell me about their aunts or cousins who have the "unusual" name, and how they spelled it (since nobody spells it exactly the same way). I was happy when the experts vindicated me.Īnd I only got my silly record and book reviews published when I started using a pseudonym. But even so, it's always been a problem I have always had trouble securing interviews if I didn't already know someone in the company.
I always called after sending in a resume, made sure they heard me. Make sure they see you, I would think, unconsciously. I always knew, for example, without really articulating why, that I should go in person to fill out a job application. Names, I have learned, are a big, big part of it. "Yes, that would be me," is what I say, as they look confused. " You're _?" is something I have heard all my life. (Is it plagiarism if you just FORGOT where you heard it?) And so, even at 50 years old, I have a name that makes people do a double-take. Just like those legendary blues riffs that got lifted from black musicians. It is likely she heard it once or twice, and simply forgot it until later. The fact that she truly could not remember ever hearing the name before, is a testament to the strength of southern segregation. My mother, a southerner by birth, never stopped telling me she made the name up. I am a white woman, a blond, blue-eyed white woman, and I have a first name strongly associated with black women. (Lately, with all the appropriation issues in the feminist blogosphere, that line has been echoing in my head.) "And they shouldn't be saying 'n-gger' in school!!! I hope you know you STILL AREN'T ALLOWED to use that word?!?" I nodded I knew. "I made UP that name," she yelled indignantly, at no one in particular. Then she smiled sweetly at me, "And I'm sure _ doesn't want you to talk about her name like that!" "Well, maybe it is," she answered, "but that's nothing you should be saying like that!" She pursed her lips in disapproval she didn't seem all that upset by it. "But IT IS!" he shouted back, his comrades hooting with hysteria. "Now, now, we'll have none of that!" the teacher injected, obviously slightly amused. I was taught that you weren't supposed to use that word. "It's a N-GGER name!" some boy in the back of the room shouted, and the room erupted with laughter. I had never met anyone else with my name. The teacher furrowed her brow, "Well, I've heard the name before," she said. I answered dutifully, "My mother made it up," which I believed was true. "That's an unusual name," she remarked, smiling. She got to my name, screwed up her face, looked confused, even alarmed. (As white flight reigned, within the year, my classes ran one-third to one-half black.) For about a year, the class I was in was mostly white. No one had said anything about my name, since there were various names considered genuinely odd and unpronounceable in my class. I had moved to Columbus, Ohio, from a small town near Cleveland, where various types of ethnic names were common. The first time it happened, I was in the third grade. They assume so, I figure, because I have a black name. While reading about The Carnival of Allies (proposed by The Angry Black Woman), I noted that I have never had to pointedly present myself as an ally to black people (not every minority I specifically refer to black people) because they have usually assumed that I am. But I recently realized that something is missing in my online identity. My real name is one that would identify me very easily, so I don't use it.
My blog name is my grandmother's name, Daisy.
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