For as long as I can remember, I've had some explaining to do when it comes to my name. As a young girl, I wasn't quite adept at pronouncing the letter R, which only complicated things more. Thankfully, I later perfected that difficult letter, but it always seemed as if people weren't expecting an R. I ALWAYS had to repeat my name. "My name is Rindi," I'd say. "Wendy?" they'd ask me back. Or, "What is it again?" Repeating my name became as much a part of me as my name itself.
I can remember attending my first high school stomp a week before school started. The music was loud, and the air was electric with possibilities. We were all anticipating the opening of our brand new high school, starting fresh and jockeying for social positions. There were so many new faces at the stomp, and all of the many boys seemed to be out bravely cutting a rug. After my dismal junior high dances, the ones where my mom curled my hair and applied my makeup only so that I could stand awkwardly on the side of the dance floor for the entire night, this was like hitting the jackpot. I could hardly thank my partner and catch my breath before the next cute guy was pulling me out among the dancing couples. The music was loud, and I had to keep shouting my name, but none of the boys could catch it the first time. Or the second. I ended up spelling my name, shouting the letters into each waiting face. Most of them, with a look of confusion, finally said, "Oh, okay," and off we'd go, dancing to the music. But a few seemed to really want to know. I'd nearly brush my lips against his ear, trying to make my name known. When the magical night was over, it didn't seem to matter that none of them probably knew my name. I could hardly remember any names either. But what did matter was that high school was off to a great start.
On the first day of school, a boy I had never seen before came up to me between classes and slipped into my hand a folded up, handwritten note from his friend. He disappeared back into the crowd before I had time to say a thing. I rushed to class and then quietly unfolded the long letter, careful to keep it hidden. I read the neatly written words. Dear Rindi...the letter started, perfectly spelled! I was pretty impressed. He went on to say that we had danced together at the stomp, and he had hoped to get my phone number, but I had left before he could find me. Once at home, he had spent hours searching and searching for my name in the student phone directory for our new high school. All he had was my first name. He didn't even know my grade. It was like Cinderella and the glass slipper. Except the only clue I had left behind were the words: My name is Rindi.
In apparent agony, he had come up empty handed. He was forced to wait for school to start, letter written, in hopes that he would spot the girl, Rindi, among the first-day crowds. And there I was. He pushed the letter into his friend's hand and shoved him in my direction. And now here I was, secretly reading his words. I refolded the letter and smiled to myself. Of course he couldn't find me in the directory. My name isn't really Rindi. It's Lorinda. I proudly inherited my name from my great-great grandmother. She always went by Rindi. And of course, I do too. I love that about my name. I would need to explain that to him, I thought. In someplace quieter than a loud dance floor. Maybe I should write him a letter. My name is easiest to understand when written down. I'd let him know that when it comes to my name, I've always had some explaining to do. My name is Rindi...but...
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