The Uphill Slide

There is always something.

Mothers Names

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I’ve been stereotyped by statements like ‘all …. are blah-blah-blah. I don’t even know all those people I’ve been lumped together with. One of my male (maybe) spammers wrote some really ugly things about American women, twice. I was offended and wanted to give him an ear beating. We American women are not all alike nor as described. It’s divisive to suggest that. To lump together all people of the same sex. To lump together people from the same country. To lump together all people with the same last name. To lump together all people of the same religion. To lump together all people of the same race. To lump all those people living in one community. Whoever stereotypes me doesn’t know me. A college student writing for a peace journal said that we must fight against categorizing, homogenizing. Maybe, but can we?

My name given at birth was Claypoole but that’s not all. My mother was a Cox and her mother a Fyock. My paternal grandmother a Weaver and hers a Haverstroh. On and on for a unique mixture from those mothers. So fitting on Mother’s Day to tell the names of women that also went into giving me my name.

“Who are you?” they might ask a man. But often to a woman, “Who were you?” I have recently been describing myself as who I was. I was. I am. But that doesn’t really tell you anything except who my family is. It doesn’t tell you who I am.

If I should change my name again for the last third of my life, assuming I make it to 99, I will be saying, I was, I was, I am. So complicated. Yet so confusing for all those Google searches of me. And how I would love to confuse Google about who I am and what I’ve been up to. It already has so much cold hard data even though it can’t process it and gets it wrong sometimes.

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