You're in luck! Today I'm so driven by procrastination that I'm writing another blog!
The issue I've been thinking about lately is one I've been pondering for a long time. Stay with me here, guys, because it's a woman's issue. I'm curious to hear if anyone else has noticed this phenom.
When I started college and began to circulate in more diverse social groups, I started to notice something. If I was talking in a group of myself and two or more men, I would frequently be either talked over or seemingly half-heard. It didn't matter whether we were discussing politics or parenting, sex or sedatives, but inevitably, I would begin to feel like I wasn't even part of the conversation, and the only thing worse than being left out of it would be to continue talking like an idiot as if someone was listening.
The first few times I noticed this, I felt paranoid, and then I felt angry and hurt (Why were these people who were supposedly my friends/colleagues/servants brushing me off?), but eventually I learned to just shrug it off as part of gender politics.
I would have expected that groups in which the men were the most "liberal" politically (those who would traditionally be most vocal for female rights) would be the least likely to do this. In actuality, some of the worst cases of being talked over/ignored that I can recall were in groups of self-proclaimed male feminists or gay men. This fact makes the "situation" (I hate to use that adjective for fear of evoking images of fake tan or "creepin.") even more troubling and complicated. If someone claims to have your back as a woman and doesn't act like it, you kind of start to feel betrayed.
The male-dominated groups in which I feel most comfortable and virtually never have this occur are 1) several male relatives 2) men who are attracted to me (on the rare occasion that this is the case) 3) men who are intoxicated and have passed out under a bar stool 4) men who are (pretending to be) asleep. So really, the only time men ever listen to me is when they want something (quiet, another drink, the continuance of our familial bloodline, etc.). Isn't that a happy notion?
You might wonder if maybe I'm some man-hating feminist. I am not. I am a feminist in that I believe women should have equal opportunities and receive equal pay. I do not fight the urge to run to the street to burn unmentionables on a daily or even biweekly basis. I shave my legs (but not in the winter).
The simple fact is, I'm never spoken over by other women, nor am I spoken over in mixed-gender groups, so the hypothesis that I'm just quiet or unimposing doesn't really hold up here either.
If you're a woman and have never noticed this, watch out for it. If you're a guy (and probably thinking "I never do that!"), check yourself. That is all.
Disclaimer: Dad, this has nothing to do with a negative male image that you are, right about now, thinking you projected to me sometime during my childhood, nor is this blog applicable to you. Exhale.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Television Review: Gone Too Far
While MTV is not the typical venue for quality television programming, I have to admit, it always has something to say about the state of American culture. In a new series, Gone Too Far, Adam Goldstein, better know as DJ AM, arranges interventions for young drug addicts and offers them in-patient rehab, while MTV foots the bill.
I first decided to watch the show because I was simply curious to see DJ AM in action. The celebrity died earlier this fall of drug overdose after a lifelong battle with addiction. A major aspect of the show is that AM is able to understand the station of the young addicts from personal experience. I was skeptical when I first tuned in because I expected the show might be gimmicky, exploiting these diseased young adults for profit's sake. On the contrary, AM brings a genuine quality to the program. At times, he is unable to hide his emotions. He gets teary-eyed with the family and friends of the addicts and his face is visibly pained as he sees and holds various drug paraphernalia. If the addicts relapses after treatment, he takes it personally.
The show provides real footage of the addicts using. Hollywood glamor aside, Gone Too Far shows real scars, real pain, and real addiction. My toes curled as I watched some scenes. Others I couldn't watch at all. There is ugly tragedy in how young the addicts are and in how powerless they are over their addictions.
In light of AM's death at age 36, I can only wonder what demons confronted him as he filmed this show. Was he using during filming? Did touching a crack pipe again awaken old muscle memory and persuade him to use? MTV recorded 9 episodes, so AM got 9 chances to save others from his fate. Unlike other reality shows with celebrity hosts, I could tell AM didn't care about money or exposure from Gone Too Far. For him, this show hit painfully close to home.
You can watch episodes of Gone Too Far on Mondays on MTV or for free on the MTV website.
I first decided to watch the show because I was simply curious to see DJ AM in action. The celebrity died earlier this fall of drug overdose after a lifelong battle with addiction. A major aspect of the show is that AM is able to understand the station of the young addicts from personal experience. I was skeptical when I first tuned in because I expected the show might be gimmicky, exploiting these diseased young adults for profit's sake. On the contrary, AM brings a genuine quality to the program. At times, he is unable to hide his emotions. He gets teary-eyed with the family and friends of the addicts and his face is visibly pained as he sees and holds various drug paraphernalia. If the addicts relapses after treatment, he takes it personally.
The show provides real footage of the addicts using. Hollywood glamor aside, Gone Too Far shows real scars, real pain, and real addiction. My toes curled as I watched some scenes. Others I couldn't watch at all. There is ugly tragedy in how young the addicts are and in how powerless they are over their addictions.
In light of AM's death at age 36, I can only wonder what demons confronted him as he filmed this show. Was he using during filming? Did touching a crack pipe again awaken old muscle memory and persuade him to use? MTV recorded 9 episodes, so AM got 9 chances to save others from his fate. Unlike other reality shows with celebrity hosts, I could tell AM didn't care about money or exposure from Gone Too Far. For him, this show hit painfully close to home.
You can watch episodes of Gone Too Far on Mondays on MTV or for free on the MTV website.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
How much time does it take to save the American Dream? At least 12 hours.
I spent yesterday in a crowded convention center with thousands of people united by one purpose: saving their homes. NACA, a national nonprofit dedicated to modifying mortgages and saving homeowners from the big, scary teeth of loan sharks, hit Las Vegas this past weekend. Sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair all day with all these people was one of the weirdest, most surreal experiences of my life.
First, let me explain how it all started, both my trip there and NACA. I accompanied my boyfriend who, for the record, is both current on his mortgage payments and can afford them, but would like to have them reduced nonetheless. The organization was started in the early 90s to use unionist tactics to confront lenders who provided sub-prime mortgages. Today, NACA has waged relationships with many lending companies. Its workers calculate a fair and affordable mortgage rate on an individual basis and negotiate directly with the lenders, who will then modify the conditions of the mortgage, or else. Or else face harassment by the organization, NACA members or elected officials.
Anyway, we arrived at Las Vegas Convention Center sometime around one on Monday, unsure what to expect. We'd heard on the news that the convention, called the "Save the Dream Tour," had been highly attended and quite successful all weekend long.
First, we were herded into a room with perhaps a hundred other individuals to complete an "orientation." This orientation basically acted as a weed-out for people who don't qualify for NACA's help, ie, people who flipped houses commercially, the unemployed. From here, our entire group was herded into the main conference center to sit in a block of metal chairs. Approximately six other groups like ours sat in the center, in line before us. Within two hours, the first of those other groups was led to the other side of the partition where the loan counselors and lenders sat. We were unable to see at this point what went on over there.
I have waited in many lines throughout my life. I've waited in the notorious lines at Disney World. I've waited in line to buy textbooks at the beginning of each semester while I was in college. I've waited in lines for sold-out concerts at huge venues. I had no idea, however, what sort of line I had stepped into on Monday. Luckily. If I, or any other person there, had any idea, we probably would have left.
Everyone sat there, in uncomfortable chairs, with relatively little information, for hours, for the mere hope of getting a more affordable mortgage. Tales circulated of people who'd had their monthly payments cut in half, their interest rates reduced to 2.5%. But who were these people? Friends of friends? The Boogey Man? Simple urban legends?
We had brought a magazine, water, a book, pistachios and a Cliff bar. In this monstrous facility, all we really had to do was wait. The stories we overheard from other people waiting, while definitely sad, drove us crazy. I heard about layoffs. I heard about grimy loans. I heard about serious illnesses and injuries. Everyone had their story. Everyone seemed to want to be the one with the worst case, the one with the most problems and the most debt.
It was so easy for me to pass judgement. I have to admit that. For instance, there was one young woman sitting a few rows behind me who had a $2000 purse and implants. I began to think, "If you couldn't afford your house, why did you buy these luxuries?" I was automatically prone to think there was something wrong with all of these people. Why did they take out loans they couldn't really afford? But in reality, I didn't know anything about any of them and, if tens of thousands of people in Vegas are in this spot, and there are enough people countrywide to warrant a tour, something is wrong with the system, not the individuals.
The worst part of waiting was knowing that many people scammed their way forward in the line. I saw dozens of people, who began in our group, somehow get hours ahead of us. Normally, my philosophy is, if you're smart enough to cheat, go for it. But in this case, they were significantly hurting others to get their way. Again, those of us who decided to follow the rules had little recourse. We were at mercy to NACA and were just grateful to be there.
After eight hours, our group finally got to cross the threshold into the space behind the partition. What we saw once we got there were the very same six group that were initially before us in the first room. Essentially, in eight hours, we'd moved nowhere. In any other situation, such a large group of people would have revolted, probably only after a few hours. But the chance to save hundreds of dollars a month was enough to pacify everyone.
Three hours later, we were finally able to see a loan counselor named Velvet. After plugging in my boyfriend's monthly earnings, monthly spending, and applying a $200 buffer, Velvet calculated what an affordable monthly mortgage would be. According to her calculations, his lender should be able to chop a few hundreds dollars off his monthly payment. Because it was one in the morning at his point, and because all the lender reps had gone home, NACA faxed their recommendations straight to the lenders. My boyfriend's lender wasn't there to begin with, so we didn't miss anything by getting through the line so late.
Now all there is to do is wait. NACA says we should receive an answer from his lender within a few weeks.
After my last blog post, people complained I had stopped being funny and/or didn't proofread before I posted. Frankly, I don't care. This blog is the one place in my life where thoughts flow freely.
First, let me explain how it all started, both my trip there and NACA. I accompanied my boyfriend who, for the record, is both current on his mortgage payments and can afford them, but would like to have them reduced nonetheless. The organization was started in the early 90s to use unionist tactics to confront lenders who provided sub-prime mortgages. Today, NACA has waged relationships with many lending companies. Its workers calculate a fair and affordable mortgage rate on an individual basis and negotiate directly with the lenders, who will then modify the conditions of the mortgage, or else. Or else face harassment by the organization, NACA members or elected officials.
Anyway, we arrived at Las Vegas Convention Center sometime around one on Monday, unsure what to expect. We'd heard on the news that the convention, called the "Save the Dream Tour," had been highly attended and quite successful all weekend long.
First, we were herded into a room with perhaps a hundred other individuals to complete an "orientation." This orientation basically acted as a weed-out for people who don't qualify for NACA's help, ie, people who flipped houses commercially, the unemployed. From here, our entire group was herded into the main conference center to sit in a block of metal chairs. Approximately six other groups like ours sat in the center, in line before us. Within two hours, the first of those other groups was led to the other side of the partition where the loan counselors and lenders sat. We were unable to see at this point what went on over there.
I have waited in many lines throughout my life. I've waited in the notorious lines at Disney World. I've waited in line to buy textbooks at the beginning of each semester while I was in college. I've waited in lines for sold-out concerts at huge venues. I had no idea, however, what sort of line I had stepped into on Monday. Luckily. If I, or any other person there, had any idea, we probably would have left.
Everyone sat there, in uncomfortable chairs, with relatively little information, for hours, for the mere hope of getting a more affordable mortgage. Tales circulated of people who'd had their monthly payments cut in half, their interest rates reduced to 2.5%. But who were these people? Friends of friends? The Boogey Man? Simple urban legends?
We had brought a magazine, water, a book, pistachios and a Cliff bar. In this monstrous facility, all we really had to do was wait. The stories we overheard from other people waiting, while definitely sad, drove us crazy. I heard about layoffs. I heard about grimy loans. I heard about serious illnesses and injuries. Everyone had their story. Everyone seemed to want to be the one with the worst case, the one with the most problems and the most debt.
It was so easy for me to pass judgement. I have to admit that. For instance, there was one young woman sitting a few rows behind me who had a $2000 purse and implants. I began to think, "If you couldn't afford your house, why did you buy these luxuries?" I was automatically prone to think there was something wrong with all of these people. Why did they take out loans they couldn't really afford? But in reality, I didn't know anything about any of them and, if tens of thousands of people in Vegas are in this spot, and there are enough people countrywide to warrant a tour, something is wrong with the system, not the individuals.
The worst part of waiting was knowing that many people scammed their way forward in the line. I saw dozens of people, who began in our group, somehow get hours ahead of us. Normally, my philosophy is, if you're smart enough to cheat, go for it. But in this case, they were significantly hurting others to get their way. Again, those of us who decided to follow the rules had little recourse. We were at mercy to NACA and were just grateful to be there.
After eight hours, our group finally got to cross the threshold into the space behind the partition. What we saw once we got there were the very same six group that were initially before us in the first room. Essentially, in eight hours, we'd moved nowhere. In any other situation, such a large group of people would have revolted, probably only after a few hours. But the chance to save hundreds of dollars a month was enough to pacify everyone.
Three hours later, we were finally able to see a loan counselor named Velvet. After plugging in my boyfriend's monthly earnings, monthly spending, and applying a $200 buffer, Velvet calculated what an affordable monthly mortgage would be. According to her calculations, his lender should be able to chop a few hundreds dollars off his monthly payment. Because it was one in the morning at his point, and because all the lender reps had gone home, NACA faxed their recommendations straight to the lenders. My boyfriend's lender wasn't there to begin with, so we didn't miss anything by getting through the line so late.
Now all there is to do is wait. NACA says we should receive an answer from his lender within a few weeks.
After my last blog post, people complained I had stopped being funny and/or didn't proofread before I posted. Frankly, I don't care. This blog is the one place in my life where thoughts flow freely.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Not so much blogging as bitching.
Enough people vent in our society that I don't really think I should be one to add to it. Talking heads vent on news programs, women vent to loudly on their cellphones at the grocery store, and, when I was teaching, the teacher's lounge could have been called the bitching lounge with no exaggeration. All that being said, I'm about to vent myself.
You see, I find myself really annoyed tonight. I guess you could say, I'm annoyed by one thing that is a constant in our world: change. I don't mean I'm bothered by changing opinions or new technology like some idiotic neo-con. I'm annoyed by one specific type of change. I don't think it has a name yet, or an abridged descriptor that likens itself to a blog, so I'm going to invent a name for it now for the sake of writing. The type of change that annoys me most (and has me in a tizzy tonight) I am going to call: Affected Personality-Fondness Drift (APFD).
Now for the definition. APFD is a condition that affects old friends and relatives you haven't seen for a while, or people might see everyday. It affects your closest companion, often people you started out really respecting and enjoying rounds of beer with when you felt you couldn't talk to anyone else. They live their lives as these admirable, likable people for days, weeks, years, decades, and then The Drift happens. The Drift can be caused by many factors, though there are commons ones you might recognize. The Drift can be a new significant other, a change of region, or a new circle of friends (especially when the person with APFD is a teen). The Drift can be a new religion (though religion can also be a symptom of APFD) or a change in careers. No matter how long it takes between when the subject first contracts APFD until APFD is full-blown and mind-blowing, those around the person with APFD often describe the onset of the change as "sudden." Suddenly, the person likes things he or she detested before. For example, someone who once wore hemp and played hacky sack in the quad between classes can now be found on Monday night at some trendy sports bar watching football, something that same person used to describe as "barbaric." The distinguishing factor between APFD and a simple change of taste is that, in cases of APFD, the person's likes change for the worst, the person seems to de-evolve, and, when questioned, the person offers no explanation and insists "I always liked country. It's been my favorite music since I was a kid."
Ironically, the thing that made we want to write this blog was reading an old friend's blog-- a friend who my friends and I have been saying for a few years has APFD. We didn't call it that, of course, but list the symptoms above and mourn the loss of him to this day.
I was about to send him a link to a photo I thought he might appreciate, but when I went to look up his email on his Facebook page, I noticed he had a blog and went to it, curiously. Almost immediately, I felt like I couldn't possibly extend contact to this person, even though he once used to be one of my closest friends. Now, he is a stranger, more acutely than those I've simply lost touch with. You see, when I was young, I was lucky enough for a year or two to have waged some of the closest friendship I will ever have--friends of the type I will never have to feel ashamed or shy in front of, the types of friendships you can only make before a certain age or during a terrible tragedy such as sickness or battle. Perhaps some people reading this blog will know the guy I describe. Perhaps he will read this blog himself, but I doubt it. I doubt his new persona sits around reading the blogs of old friends.
When we knew him, he was humorous and childlike. He wanted to commit to nothing, and committed to everything at the same time, because that is what he thought you were supposed to do as you got older. He loved to talk about sex and make horribly off-color jokes when he met people for the first time. He wanted an exotic house on the water. He had never been on a plane. He was irreverent and cried easily in the darkness of a movie theater.
Sometime during his formative years, he had a mental breakdown. I'm sorry to use that kind of dramatic language in this atmosphere, but that's what it was. He no longer knew what was what. He didn't know what he wanted to do or where he was going. He began to drink a lot. He dated strings of ridiculously inappropriate women. He became a different person. He couldn't have a conversation with any of us without some foreign pretense that I don't even know how to describe. He became obsessed with seemingly random things: car engines, loofahs.
When he met his current wife, he was still half himself, I think. I remember talking to him on the phone and hearing him tell me he had cut back his drinking to impress her; she was very religious. He suddenly became religious. He went to bible study with her, stopped drinking completely, and began having whole conversations about God. When he wasn't talking about God, he still brought up God, fitting religion into every conversation, as if he has something to prove. He said that worst things that he could say about himself before we could say them. In his blog he described himself as "not one to get emotional." He cried more than I ever did during that time, often about almost anything. He always wanted to be something outspoken, like a lawyer or a speech writer. Now he's an artist of sorts, capturing everything with a silent viewpoint. He got married after a few months. That he always wanted, but he says he loves this wife he barely knows.
I am happy he seems to think he's happy, but I wonder how long he'll be able to suppress the true side of himself, his essence. After all, he had a breakdown once, a complete change of personality. I feel sorry for his wife and friends, and how they will feel when he can't keep it up any longer. Or maybe he'll keep it up forever, and I should feel sorry for him.
You see, I find myself really annoyed tonight. I guess you could say, I'm annoyed by one thing that is a constant in our world: change. I don't mean I'm bothered by changing opinions or new technology like some idiotic neo-con. I'm annoyed by one specific type of change. I don't think it has a name yet, or an abridged descriptor that likens itself to a blog, so I'm going to invent a name for it now for the sake of writing. The type of change that annoys me most (and has me in a tizzy tonight) I am going to call: Affected Personality-Fondness Drift (APFD).
Now for the definition. APFD is a condition that affects old friends and relatives you haven't seen for a while, or people might see everyday. It affects your closest companion, often people you started out really respecting and enjoying rounds of beer with when you felt you couldn't talk to anyone else. They live their lives as these admirable, likable people for days, weeks, years, decades, and then The Drift happens. The Drift can be caused by many factors, though there are commons ones you might recognize. The Drift can be a new significant other, a change of region, or a new circle of friends (especially when the person with APFD is a teen). The Drift can be a new religion (though religion can also be a symptom of APFD) or a change in careers. No matter how long it takes between when the subject first contracts APFD until APFD is full-blown and mind-blowing, those around the person with APFD often describe the onset of the change as "sudden." Suddenly, the person likes things he or she detested before. For example, someone who once wore hemp and played hacky sack in the quad between classes can now be found on Monday night at some trendy sports bar watching football, something that same person used to describe as "barbaric." The distinguishing factor between APFD and a simple change of taste is that, in cases of APFD, the person's likes change for the worst, the person seems to de-evolve, and, when questioned, the person offers no explanation and insists "I always liked country. It's been my favorite music since I was a kid."
Ironically, the thing that made we want to write this blog was reading an old friend's blog-- a friend who my friends and I have been saying for a few years has APFD. We didn't call it that, of course, but list the symptoms above and mourn the loss of him to this day.
I was about to send him a link to a photo I thought he might appreciate, but when I went to look up his email on his Facebook page, I noticed he had a blog and went to it, curiously. Almost immediately, I felt like I couldn't possibly extend contact to this person, even though he once used to be one of my closest friends. Now, he is a stranger, more acutely than those I've simply lost touch with. You see, when I was young, I was lucky enough for a year or two to have waged some of the closest friendship I will ever have--friends of the type I will never have to feel ashamed or shy in front of, the types of friendships you can only make before a certain age or during a terrible tragedy such as sickness or battle. Perhaps some people reading this blog will know the guy I describe. Perhaps he will read this blog himself, but I doubt it. I doubt his new persona sits around reading the blogs of old friends.
When we knew him, he was humorous and childlike. He wanted to commit to nothing, and committed to everything at the same time, because that is what he thought you were supposed to do as you got older. He loved to talk about sex and make horribly off-color jokes when he met people for the first time. He wanted an exotic house on the water. He had never been on a plane. He was irreverent and cried easily in the darkness of a movie theater.
Sometime during his formative years, he had a mental breakdown. I'm sorry to use that kind of dramatic language in this atmosphere, but that's what it was. He no longer knew what was what. He didn't know what he wanted to do or where he was going. He began to drink a lot. He dated strings of ridiculously inappropriate women. He became a different person. He couldn't have a conversation with any of us without some foreign pretense that I don't even know how to describe. He became obsessed with seemingly random things: car engines, loofahs.
When he met his current wife, he was still half himself, I think. I remember talking to him on the phone and hearing him tell me he had cut back his drinking to impress her; she was very religious. He suddenly became religious. He went to bible study with her, stopped drinking completely, and began having whole conversations about God. When he wasn't talking about God, he still brought up God, fitting religion into every conversation, as if he has something to prove. He said that worst things that he could say about himself before we could say them. In his blog he described himself as "not one to get emotional." He cried more than I ever did during that time, often about almost anything. He always wanted to be something outspoken, like a lawyer or a speech writer. Now he's an artist of sorts, capturing everything with a silent viewpoint. He got married after a few months. That he always wanted, but he says he loves this wife he barely knows.
I am happy he seems to think he's happy, but I wonder how long he'll be able to suppress the true side of himself, his essence. After all, he had a breakdown once, a complete change of personality. I feel sorry for his wife and friends, and how they will feel when he can't keep it up any longer. Or maybe he'll keep it up forever, and I should feel sorry for him.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Growing into an adult with the name Nissa Wallinga
Neesa, Nice-uh, Lisa, Missa, Lissa. . .
Wallington, Wallinger, Walling, Walenda. . .
These are just a few of the names I've been called in the past 25 years (and these are the nice ones!). Since adolescence, I've begun to ponder how having a unique, apparently unpronounceable name has influenced me as a person. When I really started thinking about it, my name has shaped me more than I think most people would guess.
First if all, whatever the pros or cons of my name have been, I can't fault my parents at all for trying to make me an individual. My last name is, of course, practically unavoidable, but they chose the name Nissa for a reason. They didn't want me to be another Tom, Dick or Harry, and they wanted my name to be ethnic and reflect who I would become as a person.
Nissa is a name that has a variety of rich, delightful meanings in several different cultures. It's not some boring one-syllable name or grunt with a hard vowel. Nissa is poetic. It's phonetic. I would rather be Nissa than Jessica or Sarah. When someone yells, "Hey Nissa!" I know they're talking to me. Nissa can't be shortened, though people try all the time. Don't call me Niss, or at least don't call me that if you want me to respond.
Which brings me, I guess, to the cons. People want to shorten my name constantly. They want it to by a typical name with multiple variations. They want to pigeonhole it and Americanize it. (Whatever that means.) When I was growing up, I didn't have a way to set myself apart, all on my own. I couldn't go from Jennifer to Jen, or Jenn, or Jenni, or Jenny.
Something I've noticed more and more as I've gotten older has been the increased incidence of the question: "Oh, where are you from?"or "What race are you?" after I introduce myself. I liken it to when people ask, "So what are you?" to multi-racial citizens. Fuck you, I want say. I'm an American. Who says someone with my name can't just claim to be an American? Beyond wanting to yell just that at them, I know my name somewhat determines their perception of me. While there are many people who just tell me they think it's a pretty name, I can see in the eyes of other people that they are using my name as a clue by which to judge me. There have been plenty of sociological studies citing this effect in others who have atypical names.
I'm aware I come across, a lot of times, as rude upon introduction. "Hi, I'm Nissa," I say, "I'm Nissa Wallinga." I prepare for the same old dialogue.
They look puzzled. "Lisa?"
"Nissa."
"Lissa?"
I always have to be on my best behavior, or I roll my eyes.
What's worse is when someone is reading my name off a paper somewhere, or calling me when my coffee's done.
"Decaf for Neesa!"
"Yeah."
"Did I say that right?"
"No, goddamn it. It's phonetic. Didn't anyone ever teach you how to read?"
My 9-year-old special ed students, on the other hand, could read it perfectly off my staff badge the first time. They know phonics. All I'm saying is, take a lot of time to think before naming your kid something weird.
I can't see ever changing my name, though I've definitely thought about it. I probably think about dropping Wallinga more often (hence this url). At this point in time, getting rid of Wallinga is just about the best reason I can see to get married. In fact, my own family can't decide whether it's pronounced "Wall-IN-ga" or "WALL-in-ga." But that's a whole other story.
Wallington, Wallinger, Walling, Walenda. . .
These are just a few of the names I've been called in the past 25 years (and these are the nice ones!). Since adolescence, I've begun to ponder how having a unique, apparently unpronounceable name has influenced me as a person. When I really started thinking about it, my name has shaped me more than I think most people would guess.
First if all, whatever the pros or cons of my name have been, I can't fault my parents at all for trying to make me an individual. My last name is, of course, practically unavoidable, but they chose the name Nissa for a reason. They didn't want me to be another Tom, Dick or Harry, and they wanted my name to be ethnic and reflect who I would become as a person.
Nissa is a name that has a variety of rich, delightful meanings in several different cultures. It's not some boring one-syllable name or grunt with a hard vowel. Nissa is poetic. It's phonetic. I would rather be Nissa than Jessica or Sarah. When someone yells, "Hey Nissa!" I know they're talking to me. Nissa can't be shortened, though people try all the time. Don't call me Niss, or at least don't call me that if you want me to respond.
Which brings me, I guess, to the cons. People want to shorten my name constantly. They want it to by a typical name with multiple variations. They want to pigeonhole it and Americanize it. (Whatever that means.) When I was growing up, I didn't have a way to set myself apart, all on my own. I couldn't go from Jennifer to Jen, or Jenn, or Jenni, or Jenny.
Something I've noticed more and more as I've gotten older has been the increased incidence of the question: "Oh, where are you from?"or "What race are you?" after I introduce myself. I liken it to when people ask, "So what are you?" to multi-racial citizens. Fuck you, I want say. I'm an American. Who says someone with my name can't just claim to be an American? Beyond wanting to yell just that at them, I know my name somewhat determines their perception of me. While there are many people who just tell me they think it's a pretty name, I can see in the eyes of other people that they are using my name as a clue by which to judge me. There have been plenty of sociological studies citing this effect in others who have atypical names.
I'm aware I come across, a lot of times, as rude upon introduction. "Hi, I'm Nissa," I say, "I'm Nissa Wallinga." I prepare for the same old dialogue.
They look puzzled. "Lisa?"
"Nissa."
"Lissa?"
I always have to be on my best behavior, or I roll my eyes.
What's worse is when someone is reading my name off a paper somewhere, or calling me when my coffee's done.
"Decaf for Neesa!"
"Yeah."
"Did I say that right?"
"No, goddamn it. It's phonetic. Didn't anyone ever teach you how to read?"
My 9-year-old special ed students, on the other hand, could read it perfectly off my staff badge the first time. They know phonics. All I'm saying is, take a lot of time to think before naming your kid something weird.
I can't see ever changing my name, though I've definitely thought about it. I probably think about dropping Wallinga more often (hence this url). At this point in time, getting rid of Wallinga is just about the best reason I can see to get married. In fact, my own family can't decide whether it's pronounced "Wall-IN-ga" or "WALL-in-ga." But that's a whole other story.
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