Beech Tree News Network

There was a program on the BBC about ten years ago called “Are You Dave Gorman?”  It was dreamed up by an Irish guy named Dave Gorman and his flat mate, Danny (can’t remember his last name).  The escapade began when Dave and Danny were playing cards one evening, and Danny bet Dave that he couldn’t find 52 other people in the world who shared the name Dave Gorman—one for each card in the deck.  Dave accepted the challenge and so the search was on.
    They began in England and travelled around the globe on their quest.  Dave got to within four authentic Dave Gormans, when it looked as if he would have to concede to Danny, admitting there weren’t 52 other people in the world who shared his name.  But Dave Gorman, who descends from a plucky lot, developed a new strategy.  He found four people who agreed to have their names legally changed to his, thus winning the bet.
    It was both amusing and amazing to watch these otherwise normal people go through the legal hassle and paper work required to change their names.  It was great TV, but it made me think about what it would take to make me do the same.
    Garey’s sister, Charlotte, became Charlotte Finley when she married her first husband.  She became Charlotte Edwards when she married her second husband.  After divorcing her second husband, she changed her name back to Charlotte Finley (the surname shared by her children).  Garey never has to worry about my leaving him.  I would shoot myself before I’d go through that kind of paper work.  I just don’t have the strength.  Besides, I’ve grown attached to my name.  Sometimes, I try out pen names that sound a bit more eloquent, just in case I do write that best seller, but I always come back to Cheryl Hughes.
    My granddaughter, Sabria, is a golden-haired two-year-old, and she is often stopped by adults who admire her curls and ask her name.  When she first started talking, she called herself, Bia.  Her name then morphed into Sabia.  This summer she was suddenly able to get the “r” into the mix and was able to practice saying her name correctly several times while we were on vacation.
    Natalie and I took Sabria to the Ripley’s Aquarium in Gatlinburg.  The aquarium added a dinosaur exhibit a couple of years ago, and like most kids, she was enamored with it.  At the entrance of the exhibit, stands a gigantic T-Rex who moves and roars as all the little kids run quickly by into the safety of a cavern filled with fewer life-threatening species.
    Sabria didn’t run quickly by.  She stood back and watched him. 
    “He’s not real, baby,” I said.
    “Yes he is,” she said as she moved cautiously forward.
    She looked up at the massive head with its blazing eyes and large teeth.
    “It’s me, Sabria,” she told him.
    He let out a roar, but she stood her ground.
    “It’s me, Sabria,” she said again then walked into the cavern to look at the other dinosaurs on display.
    It’s as if she were saying, “It’s me, don’t you recognize me?  What’s all the ruckus about?”  She knew her name, she knew who she was, and that gave her the courage to get past the creature that was blocking her path.  Maybe that’s a name’s job.  It establishes a place for each of us to make a stand.  “It’s me,” a name says, “You don’t have to be afraid or threatened.  It’s just me.”  Yeah, I think I’ll stick with my simple little name.  It has helped me get past many monsters attempting to block my path.