Le maudit Mo D.

Dah-Vee-Oh Woot Woot

This evening we attended the lovely and touching nuptials of Geegster Shelly and her longtime beau Chad. Maybe it's just a Texas thing, but at the reception we observed that the two families were given to cheering for themselves whenever their surname was mentioned. The groom's family has more children so they seemed to be filling the halls with riotous woot-woots everytime their surname was spoken, as if this were not a melding of two families into one but something closer to league sports.

I grew up around very few people who share my hard-to-spell, easy-to-pronounce-once-you-are-told-what-it-is last name. Once dad died and mom married the now-former stepdad* who weighed her down with his clunky Armo last name, I was the only one in my little world carrying the name around. I have an older brother who I rarely speak of. He very clearly and unabashedly gives not a shit about me, which is a damn shame because he is old and not well and wouldn't it be in his favor to have family who cares about him?

In a way, I envy this. So disjointed my family life has been that to have my own little D. army, a cohesive cause, banded together and strengthened by repeated spelling and pronouncing of a complicated surname shared by few others, would have probably made me a stronger person, more comfortable, more American, proud and free. Or does the fact that I go forth alone with my name more American, more independent, knowing that no one south of the Eastern Townships can say my name with any accuracy?

My beloved's last name has two consecutive p sounds. You can't chant it. It is the sound of mashed potatoes hitting the plate. AP! THORP! My last name is quite lyrical, and sounds very good when chanted. Let the rooftops rise and the crowd go wild: DAH-VEE-OH! DAH-VEE-OH!

*I am tickled by being able to say this. It is like a gift I get to open again and again.