My Middle name is Michael, My Dad’s name is Michael too. We are not some family of Michael or Michael Junior or Michael the first or Michael the great or Michael the slight or Michael the second. No, we are not. In fact I couldn’t spell Michael until relatively late on in my grammatical and lexicographical development (I hope that word means what I think it does, I’m not going to look it up, i’ll wing it; watch me fly). I found the “a” and “e” really hard to put together, they didn’t belong and I found it all rather confusing.
My Uncle is called Monty and his Dad, my Grandpa; was also called Monty or Montague to give him his proper, formal name, every one called him Monty. So as I grew up I reasonably assumed (it’ll make an ass out of u and me) that the carrying of names through families was commonplace, not content with passing on the surname, we had to pass on the first name in some form; were we really that vain? Funnily enough as I write I’m wondering to myself if the women of the family had the same deluded legacy or if they were more secure in the knowledge that their aim was to leave something more than a name; Alice, Marjorie, Ethnie, Hilda, Dorah. Its just a thought, which occurred to me, just now.
With my adoption well under way and my relationship with Mick, (Biodad), on solid ground, I learnt from reading through the adoption notes my Dad had left for me in his filing cabinet that actually my middle name was inherited from my Biodad but given to me by my Dad as a tribute to my Biodad, not as some sort of vanity status thing. My Dad, recognised my Biodad in my life by giving me his name and not his. The fact they had the same names is immaterial, I know my Dad and I know he named me, for the reasons he did. I think that is incredibly noble, he’s a good bloke, my Dad.
Thank goodness I’ve got a break tomorrow, its Sunday and I shall be lying down in a darkened room.
Love to you all