Why I Am Not Called Grace

I think my mom had genuine insight. When she was pregnant with me, she and my dad tossed quite a few names around, trying to decide which ones they like the best. Back in 1947, ultrasound had not yet been invented to determine the sex of the child. Names were guess-work. You decided on two: one boy and one girl. Then you would use the one for that baby once it was born.

My mom had a few for girls: Anne, Elizabeth, Margaret, Grace, Laurinda. For a boy, she thought of, Michael, Peter, Joseph, Luke, and Matthew. Dad said whatever name she decided on was fine with him.

My grandmother asked that if a girl were born, would they please heavily consider Margaret since that was her mother’s name.

One of my aunts suggested the name Grace since it seemed like such a delicate and feminine name.

In May of 1947, Mom gave birth to a screaming, howling, and wriggling like a crazy person little girl. The doctor laughed and said it would seem as though I wanted to let everyone know I had arrived.

My mom and dad laughed and knew Grace would definitely not be my name.

After the mandatory five-day stay in the hospital, I arrived home with my parents. My grandmother beamed! Her mother’s namesake was beautiful, she said. My 27-month-old brother tried to correct our grandmother.

Keep in mind here that being 2-years-old, his way of speaking was still babyish.

“No, Nana. Dee not Mawgwet. Dee Donnie.”

Our grandmother was a bit confused.

She looked at my mother and asked, “I thought you said you were naming her Margaret?”

Mom said, “We did. I don’t know what Frankie’s talking about.”

My brother cleared it up quite soon.

“Mama, I Fwakie. That Donnie.”

Ah, the mystery was made clear.

When my dad was home on leave from the war, mom got pregnant. Naturally, since dad was only home for a week, they had no idea of mom’s condition. Dad found about via the Salvation Army, nine months later when he received word while in the Pacific.

He was delighted.

While he was away, his son became mom’s world. She told him stories, sang to him, and generally occupied his every waking moment.

He had gotten used to hearing his name, Frankie. His favorite song soon became, “Frankie and Johnny.”

Home from the war for just over a year, mom announced to dad that they were to again become parents. That’s when the name picking began again as did the hilarity.

My brother’s decision that I should be his “Johnny” finally stuck after his many tantrums. Everyone thought that when he got a bit older, he would understand that my name was Margaret.

Well, that didn’t work very well. I had gotten so used to being called “Donnie,” that I never responded to Margaret. While my legal name is still Margaret, I have never been addressed in that fashion – except for legal matters (mail, diplomas, etc.).

By the time I was one month old, my brother decided I should be walking. He would stand behind me, grab my wrists, and pull me up as he tried to guide my steps by pushing my little feet in tandem with his. All too often, he’d stand in front of me, grab my arms, and try steading me to get me to walk by pulling me in his direction.

Mom would try not to panic and gently explain that I wasn’t old enough yet to stand.

That didn’t deter my brother at all. All it did was prove to him that I was clumsy. Hmm!

In a way, I was sort of a rambunctious child. If mom placed me on the bed, she’d have to barricade all the ends of it. I tried to always escape. No matter where my brother toddled to in the house, I crawled to keep up. And yes, soon I was toddling with him. The big difference was that while he toddled a usual babyish gait, I bumped into furniture, walls, and whatever else was in my way. It never dawned on me that inanimate objects don’t necessarily move.

I began walking faster and faster, more like a run. The walls still didn’t move. Mom saw me trip over my own feet. Thinking there was something wrong with me, an appointment with the doctor was made to check out my legs and well, me in general. The doctor found nothing but suggested mom move out of my way, anything, and everything she could that might cause me harm.

Dad, of course, laughed and said to the doctor, “That’s all well and good but what about the walls. She just doesn’t watch where her fast feet are going.” The doctor had no answer.

Dad, again, remarked that I could trip over a bobby pin (for those who don’t know what that is, it’s a small u-shaped clip that once pushed into your hair, stays there to keep hair from falling in your eyes. It’s removed when you pull it out. They are usually about 2-inches long and 1/16-of an inch wide.) So, now, you’re wondering how anyone could trip over one. Honestly, as far as I recall, I never did but that was always Dad’s standard joke about my clumsiness.

When I was about four years old, mom enrolled me in a dance class. She chose ballet hoping the graceful, fluid movements might slow me down and teach me to be graceful. I think I was the teacher’s first failure. After a few months, she refunded mom’s money and suggested I be taken out of the class. The teacher said that rather than just lift myself up on my toes, I’d jump in the air. I didn’t have the graceful momentum for a “twirl,” or a slow pirouette. I tried to spin like a top. I just insisted on doing things much faster than the class required. Mom was a bit upset but not surprised.

Do or did I have ADD or ADHD? Who knows? Back then those illness had not yet been discovered. Yet, I sincerely doubt I had either. I can remember when I became a teen. I could sit in a chair and read for hours. Oh heck! I read Moby Dick in one day! Yes, I could sit still and concentrate on any one particular thing. More often than not, I chose not to. I’d rather be in motion. I still like to move.

In all these years, when I am now in my seventies, I’m still a klutz. I still move too fast, when my arthritis permits; walls still refuse to move out of my way; I can sit at my desk at home and bump into the same desk when I stand to walk round it in order to get to the next room.

I feel I have my mind on too many things rather than what I’m currently doing, and I would get caught up with the thought of what’s next to pay too much attention to what’s in front of me.

Not too long ago, my brother and I were talking about the name he gave me so many years before. He asked if I ever thought of telling people to call me by my legal name. I responded that I often thought of changing my legal name to the one he gave me when I was just one week old but then decided out of respect to my grandmother and her mother, I’d leave my name the way it is. Except for any legal matters (taxes, etc.), no one ever uses it anyway. To my family and friends, I am and always will be Donnie.

He laughed and said, “Well, at least we know why you’re not called Grace.”