Tiller of Soil, or Farmer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: House of G
What my name has brought to my life.

Submitted: October 23, 2016

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Submitted: October 23, 2016

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“Tiller of the soil, or farmer.”

“It’s a state, country, song and peach. If you can guess it, you may have it.”

I don’t like giving my name away to strangers that much. Some people give me an uneasy feeling, but I don’t want to be rude, but if they can guess it then they’re intelligent enough to know the two syllables that make my head turn and take my attention. It’s the one word that is mine, assigned to me at birth, if not before.

I was named after the song. My sister was named after “Pretty Belinda”, by Chris Andrews, released 1972. I don’t know much about my naming except that it has haunted me my whole life. My sister’s name isn’t even in most auto-corrects.  I got the famous, yet uncommon name (though it was very popular in New Zealand in 1993) that most American’s misspell even though I give the spelling clues of “State, Country, Song, Peach”.

“Oh, that’s such a lovely, pretty, beautiful, name. You know that Ray Charles was singing about the state, right?”

Yes I’m aware. Please don’t patronize me.

“Yeah, I know, but in New Zealand we don’t associate the song to the state, though we know the state does exist.”

“You guys know American geography? That’s so cool. Most of us don’t even know American geography.”

Yes, I’m aware.

 

As a kid I was so afraid to say my own name. It sounded garbled and unfamiliar.

JROI-GREE-YER”

I hated it.

Now when I say my name, everyone copies me because my accent is different. They come up to me and say

JAW-JA, hello, my name is JAW-JA.”

I laugh it off like their joke is the first time I’ve heard it, like their crappy English dialect is accurate, and I go along with it, changing my dialect to an accurate English one and start acting in a scene where I’m not being made fun of and it doesn’t bother me because people only laugh at me when I get mad and stand up for myself.

 

I remember one time when I was maybe seven-or-so and I was at an obligatory wedding where Belinda and I knew no-one. My step-dad was in the wedding band as a bass player. I don’t remember my mother being in this memory. Maybe she told us to go off and play. Maybe my step-dad didn’t want Belinda and I in sight of everyone else. We ran off into the rose garden where we met a bunch of older gentlemen around my step-dad’s age; late fifties. One bent a little at the waist.

“Hello, there. What are your names?”

“Belinda.”

Shy and uncomfortable, I said my name avoiding eye contact.

“What lovely names. They’re the names of songs.” To me he asked: “Do you know what song your name is?”

“No.”

He sang the opening words. “I love that song. We’re part of the band so how about we play it for you?”

“No thank you.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t worry about it. We’ll play it just for you.”

“No thank you. I don’t want you to”

And they did. With a dedication to me and all.

“To the little girl named Georgia.”

I sat in the rose garden with my sister and cried from embarrassment about how my name was a song and now everyone knew. 


© Copyright 2017 G. E. Davies. All rights reserved.

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