My name with yours

I had always hated my name, well, more specifically my middle name. I was named Mary Stephen Jones on the 21^st of March, 2004. A little girl with a boy’s middle name that had no correlation with her first name whatsoever. I blamed my parents, of course. Who, when I asked the reason for my name merely answered, “That was your grandfather’s name.” And perhaps it was unempathetic of me but I never understood why I had to carry my grandfather’s name. I had never met him, so I assumed he passed on before I was born, or at least before I had enough consciousness to collate memories of him, plus I had two grandmothers with perfectly eligible names which I would have been happy to carry. Mary Leanne Jones would have had a ring to it, and Mary Ruby Jones, although a little basic, would have at least ensured that I did not get made fun of in class, or by my millions of cousins, who found it as entertaining as just about anything. I resented family gatherings for that very reason. Stevie, they called me. Boy cooties Stevie. Somewhere along the way, the aunts and uncles picked it up. And although it was hardly in a malicious way, I couldn’t help but wince when they squeezed my cheeks and shouted, “How’s my little Stevie? You’ve grown so tall!”

Only then, on this day, many summers ago, as I held in my hand, a tearstained rendition of my grandmother’s last testimony, did I finally realize the beauty of the name that had been given to me.

Mary Stephen Jones,

By the time you read this I will have already passed on. And I want you to know that it is okay. I have lived a long and fulfilling life, much of which I have already divulged you, for you were always a curious child. From birth I have told you the stories of me and your grandpa. Our first meeting in the busy city of Berlin, my paper piled so high atop my arms I could barely see over the top of it, his helping hand offering to ease my burdens. I have told you of our talks under the big Elm tree, our travels across the land, romantic walks on the beach. But you were never satisfied with just the stories of love and adventure and happiness. You wanted to know everything, not just the happy things, but also the sad, hard truths. I obliged. I told you of our financial shortages and hardships in our lives. The days when we could barely afford a clean pair of shoes on our feet, stealing from big company corporations, which had just began emerging at the time. Remember what I told you? Never steal from small businesses, it’s the big super-giants you’ve got to turn your attention to, the ones that leech good, hardworking commoners of their due income. Those are the ones you target. Your mother was, of course, horrified of the things I was telling you. She is too young to listen to your nonsense, she scolded me. But you were persistent, and I was a talker. A chatterbox, they called me. I told you almost everything about my life, but I’m afraid there is one last chapter to tell.

I know you always resented being given your name. I saw the sour look you tried to hide when one of my many sons and daughters called you Stevie. When I called you Stevie. For a long time I debated whether to tell you the story of your name, and although I wasn’t sure why, I never did. Perhaps it simply held too much of my heart to give up, perhaps I was afraid of what you would say. But as I write this final letter to you, my dear grandchild, I hope you will listen to this one last story.

For a good part of the 1900s your grandfather was weak. He developed pains in his knees, which was later detected to be arthritis, and type two diabetes, which they said was caused by some bad eating habits. He had always been an action-packed man, who enjoyed a weekly beer with the guys, and a casual watch of football. It was, as ridiculous as it sounds, the first time that we both realized we were getting old. It’s a bizarre thing, watching wrinkles appear on your skin like little spiderwebs that eventually connect and interweave with each other, running your hands through your hair, only to find a streak of grey tangled between your fingers. Aging was a thing so natural and normal, and yet something that had always seemed so distant… Forgive my tangent, Stevie, but in time you will understand my meaning. Despite remaining upbeat, and taking all the health precautions we could, your grandfather was diagnosed with liver cancer in the later part of 2002. He fought hard, refusing to give in until he saw his son, your father, get married and settled with your mother. And when he heard the news of your mother’s pregnancy… god, it was beautiful… But cancer does not give in easy. The disease struggled against the treatment, as well as your grandfather’s sheer, iron will in an unwavering stalemate. And to this day I think that it was a miracle, of sorts, that you were born on the very same day he passed away.

I remember it like it was yesterday. The light blinking out of his eyes as he drifted into a better place, a place where he would no longer have to feel the pain of the living, a place in the soft clouds above. I remember the tears of both grief and relief knowing that he was no longer suffering, and that he had finally moved on. I don’t know how long I sat with him before someone called me away. A birth, they said. The cries of the newborn filled the air when I walked into that birthing room and saw you for the first time. You were a tiny little thing, barely the size of that purple teddy you loved so much, and you screamed with lungs of such fire and ferocity that I knew you were going to be just as stubborn, and passionate, and empowering as he was. We cried, your mother, father, your aunts and uncles. A beautiful cacophony of happiness and sorrow. Mary Stephen Jones. The beautiful little girl that would carry his spirit.

I hope you will forgive me for giving you such a name, my dear Stevie. For tying his spirit to yours, and for not being able to let it go, even after all these years. And I hope that one day, you will be able to find in someone, the same beauty that I found in your grandfather. Someone who you will be willing to fight for and hold onto tightly for the rest of your life, someone who makes you laugh, even in the darkness.

With all the love in the world,

Grandma