Who Are YOU....

Introduction

1988

I pumped my elementary arms and legs as fast as I could as I raced toward my one goal. Shoving a sock down Jonathan’s throat. His laugh traveled back to me and seemed to cut razors into my skin which just drove me harder. Since we hadn't hit the years where puberty would make him taller, faster, and stronger than me, I easily caught him. But as an adult looking back maybe catching him would never be too hard. Isn't is funny how when you finally get your hands around what you want you aren't quite sure what to do with it? I grabbed his arms and brought my bright blue eyes right upon his dark brown ones. “Stop calling me toots,” I growled with my teeth grinding together. I had no idea where this name came from, what it meant, or even if it was negative or positive. What I did know is that I didn't like how it made him laugh every time he said it, so it must be bad. With a laugh and a quick jerk of his arms to free himself, he ran away yelling “whatever you say toots!” 

My name is Theresa. Theresa means “the Harvester.” Which isn’t all that exciting while all the other girls are seeing their names mean “beautiful” “Delicate one” or “sunny flower.” All I pictured was a farmer standing in the middle of the wheat covered field holding a scythe. Also, I am allergic to wheat so yeah…. The harvester wouldn't be on my top ten name pick. 

When my mom was pregnant with  me people would ask her if she thought I would be a boy or a girl. My mom answered every time with a grin and said “Not sure but we are naming her Theresa.” I once asked her what she would have done if my brother had been born first. Never really thought about it, was her reply.  I would be named after her cousin, Theresa.  Finally my moment had come. In Spanish class, we got to pick our own spanish name to use in class. HOWEVER, Teresa is a spanish name and so close that my teacher named me. Mom- one  Spanish teacher- one  Theresa- 0  

As my 10th grade English teacher  was handing back papers he would often remark, “Oh Red, Red, Red. I don’t know if I call you that because of the color of your hair or how much red pen I waste in grading your papers.”

Mr. Pickens was the first teacher to tell me I was an exceptional writer. Mr. Pickens gave 2 grades. One for content and one for mechanics. The mechanics grade was based on grammar, sentence structure, and SPELLING. I can’t spell my way out of a wet paper bag. My mechanics grade showed it. One time I misspelt the name “Henrey” through my entire paper on The Red Badge of Courage. I think Mr. Pickens used 2 pens that day.

Mr. Pickens loved my content though. He always told me how insightful and clever my analysis was. I wish I would have saved some of those papers. He always gave me a content grade so high that it would equal out with my mechanics. Mechanics 70 Content 130. Even though I was not a fan of my red hair, I let the nickname slide because it was funny and true. To say Mr. Pickens was rough around the edges is an understatement. He was often rude and crass and earned the ire of his students. I kind of liked him. I found him to be intelligent and more than a bit arrogant. His nickname to me was “Red.” He always said I liked the nickname. Maybe I felt unique and noticed.

That’s the thing about nicknames.  Or names in general. Names stick. They are what defines us in a way. It is almost like a first impression for anyone not standing in front of you. Some cultures will not name the baby girl or baby boy for a few years. They want to make sure the child and the name compliment each other.  Sometimes we as parents pick out our child’s name before we pick the spouse! 

    It all makes sense when you realize your very name is the answer to one of the most important questions this side of eternity.  

WHO ARE YOU?

And so begins the battle of life when each of us is trying to live up to some names and live in spite of other ones.  Which name is true? The “name” you were called as a child as you ran for cover. The one with the tone that says you aren’t enough.  The one announces you  at the graduation ceremony or the one whispered about behind your back.  

    For some of us, our names are tied into our reputations, families, accomplishments, and failures.  People will know of us many times before they KNOW us. For example, when I first meet people I often go into shut down mode. I don’t talk or lift my eyes up. Apparently, the first time my now best friend Jamie met me was at the school photocopier. It was jamming, and I was frustrated. I barely remember this episode, but Jamie loves to tell the world that after I left that room, she knew I was someone she was not interested in getting to know.  Thank goodness she gave me another chance.  Because Jamie is a best friend, fix your crown kind of girl, if she is introducing me to someone, she warns them I may be a bit “aloof,” at first but in the end worth the trouble.

    I had a dream. I was standing at a podium staring out at many familiar faces. I knew I was supposed to be giving a speech. I glanced down on the paper, and the only thing that was written was “Hello. My name is Theresa Demi.” I shuffled the papers and looked on the back of the paper. Nothing. My mind was screaming at me to start talking. I opened my mouth and whispered into the microphone, “Hello. My name is Theresa Demi.” I stopped. I stood there pulling at my shirt sleeves and gripping the pen so hard that blue ink was running through my fingers. 

The voice in my head bellowed again. Keep talking! I opened my mouth but didn’t know who should be coming out. Where was I? Did the people want to know about the girl who graduated in the top percentage of her class with a scholarship to a well known private school? Or should I tell them about my anxiety coping mechanisms that I have been using for years.  Did these people want Theresa who hung out with her friends (Clearly this was taking place pre-kids.) Did they want to know about the girl in my journals or the girl on the stage? Putting the broken pen down I clasped my hands together and looked up. “Hello. My name is Theresa Demi. I don’t know who I am.”

 Then I ran out of the auditorium. I heard voices behind me, but my mind was just screaming “RUN! They are going to find out. I ran straight into the dark library,  which is interesting that even in my dreams I know books bring peace. I couldn't touch anything because I had blue ink all over my hands. Besides, I didn't want anyone to know I was here.  I sat down on the steps. “Hello. My name is Theresa Demi. I don’t know who I am or why I am here. There has to be more.”  Then I woke up.

The Japanese say you have three faces. The first face, you show to the world. The second face, you show to your close friends and family. The third face, you never show anyone. It is the truest reflection of who you are. Does anyone know who you are? I could list off titles and accomplishments. I am a wife, mother, daughter, a sister, a second grade teacher, writer, a reader. Alan Moore wrote “You wear a mask for so long, you forget who you were beneath it”. 

   

It was the question of my conscious thought all day long. It was the cry of my heart. I came up with plans. I could ask others who they thought I was, but that ended up as a dead end when I realized that they could only know me as a result of what I showed them. 

   

I thought I was a good person. I worked hard at school. I went to church and church youth groups. But there was always the shadow lurking around pointing out each time I fell. Everytime I let my temper get the best of me,      the shadow wound around my legs. I tried all day being extra good to get the shadow to go away. I went to my library and my friend asked if she could borrow my notes to copy in her study room.  “Sure,” I said. A cold shill went up my back. “Isn’t that cheating?” It hissed hot air hitting my neck. “I was being a good friend.” “Always there an excuse,” it whispered as the tension built in my head. “If people really know you, how I know you, they would see how  revolting, repellent, and  repulsive your very soul is.  Then a thought occurred to me. Who is this shadow? Is this my conscience? What if what it said was true.  As my head hit the pillow that night, I said “Hello. My name is Theresa Demi. And I don’t think I want to know who I am.” 

    Heaven heard my call. I don’t even know if it could be a prayer.  Before I drifted in between dream and awake. I heard this voice before although I couldn’t place it. “I know who you are. I will tell you.” I felt relief with a side of fear. But I have  to know. 

A plan was already rolling