Claudine M. Jalajas; Essays

Fading Fast

I slid the cable bill, torn at the appropriate perforation, and check into the envelope. Taking one last look as the form slipped away, I rolled my eyes in disgust at my signature: "CM Jalajas." With the scratch of a pen I have eliminated the last thing that remained mine: the first name my French mother gave me, and the last name from my Irish father. My actual full name is Claudine Anne McCormack Jalajas. It's a little long to write out, so I've abbreviated it. There's a lot to do each day, why waste time?

I was supposed to be Michael. For whatever reason, my mother assumed I would be a boy. Perhaps she carried low, or high, or all in front? When the doctor announced, "it's a girl" my mother replied, "Are you sure?" The scramble for a name began. My mother thought about naming me Annabelle, after my paternal grandmother. My grandmother said, "Don't you dare!" She hated her name. So I was named Claudine, after one of my aunts, and my grandmother allowed Anne as my middle name.

Claudine is pronounced Klo-Deen but no one ever says it right-not even me. There's no way to say it without sounding like the perky blonde news anchor who, in a flash, switches from English to Spanish when mentioning, "Guatemala," "Puerto Rico," or "El Nino." I'm lucky if they call me Claudine at all. I'm not sure what happens from the time my mouth utters "Claudine" until it hits someone's ears but they will eventually call me Claudia, Claudette, or sometimes Christine. Even my husband called me "Claudia" on our first date (I'm very forgiving).

When I was a child, the name Claudine was better-known. The scene was always the same, an adult would hear my name, their eyes would widen and with a grin they'd ask, "Ohhh... do you know who Claudine Longet is?" At only eight years old I would robotically answer, "Yes, she was married to Andy Williams and then she shot the skier Spider Sabitch" while having no idea who any of these people were.

Although my last name was a heck of a lot easier to say than my married name, people frequently misspelled it like the spice company McCormick (which is Scottish, not Irish-you can imagine my irritation). I learned very young that when giving my last name I had to say more than twice, "m - A - c - k" to the person hurriedly writing it down. They would still misspell it. It's m-A - c- k, not I-c-k. No, the McC is right. It's at the end, you put m-I-c-k. It's McCormAAAck, not McCormiiiick. Looking completely annoyed, they'd cross out the name and rewrite it as if I had asked them to please move the armoire a bit to the left this time. Misspoken or misspelled-they were my names and I liked them for 24 years.

I'm not sure why I changed my name in the first place-I didn't trade families and I wasn't purchased. When we married, I didn't want to just "drop" my last name and I'm not the hyphen-type either. It seemed wrong to even discuss the option of keeping my own last name-which would likely shock my husband since it's rare for me to not voice my opinions. But we both come from divorced families and I didn't want him to think I wanted to save future paperwork. And I did want it to be clear to other people that we were married. In retrospect, the diamond and band on my left hand should tip them off. Or, like I tell my kids, I could use my words and tell them. So, like a cow accepting the farm brand, I didn't fight it and just tacked Jalajas to the end of my name. I normally use the M as a middle initial. I like to see the M-and truth be told I want my name back.

My married name is spelled J A L A J A S. Now let me stop you right there-it's not Spanish. Everyone tries to pronounce it that way, Hal-a-hass. I cannot get out of the dentist's office without a lengthy discussion on its origin or pronunciation. You say the Js like Ys. No no, like this: Yolly Yas. It's my husband's name, not mine. It's Estonian. It's one of the small Baltic countries by Russia (and that's about the extent of the geography lesson for today-I don't know if it's anywhere near Finland, Switzerland, or Sweden). No, I'm not from there-my husband is. Yes, I imagine it is very cold there in the winter. Anxiously I wait for the clerk to finish writing out my upcoming appointment on the card. I don't know why, but I want to scream-"don't you want to know what MY name is?"

I come from a long line of strong women and struggle each day to be like them. My mother's great-grandmother Katherine Cane was seven years old when she found herself alone on the banks of the Isle of Orleans outside Quebec. Her family, along with the majority of passengers, had been wiped out from typhoid fever on the ship escaping the famine and disease of Ireland in 1847. The stories are varied, but she may have had a sister who also survived. They were separated and adopted by different families. My grandmother said they once saw each other in town while shopping but were pulled away from each other immediately and never saw each other again. We can only verify the existence of Katherine. The ship burned shortly after arriving to Quebec. All was lost, including the ship's manifest. The only thing left are the stories.

My mother Francine is French-Canadian and a former ballerina with the National Ballet of Canada. She has four sisters and one brother. Her father died when she was only four years old of a brain aneurysm and she overheard her mother counseled to send some of the "younger" children to the orphanage. My grandmother, a newly widowed mother, refused to separate her family. She worked at night in her home as a seamstress. My mother recalls falling asleep to the whirr of the foot-pedal sewing machine in the next room.

My father William (Billy) was the oldest of three boys from Brooklyn and about as tough as they came. My uncle remembers my grandmother being told to 'wake up Billy' in the middle of the night so he could help his father. His father, a police-officer, would have found himself in the middle of a bar-fight needing some extra muscle. At the age of 16 he enlisted in the Navy under a false name (that his World War I veteran father gave him) to join the fight in World War II. For two years he stood on the back of a destroyer looking for enemy submarines, dropping bombs into the water with his bare hands. He was court-marshaled at 18 when it was discovered he wasn't who he said he was on his enlistment papers. In light of his courage he was granted honorable discharge after fulfilling the rest of his contract with the government under his own name. Later, he settled on tending bar as a career. It was as close to being on stage as he would ever come. Billy, a classic Irishman, answered most questions with a story or a joke. He'd lay out the joke slowly, as if pouring a drink desperate not to spill a drop. Taking a long drag on his cigarette, he'd review his audience to ensure they were all paying attention. As he let out the smoke from his lungs, he'd reveal the punch line and survey the laughter. He died when I was just a girl and the grief nearly destroyed me-I really loved being Billy's daughter.

No one knows who I am anymore-or more importantly who I was before I became CM Jalajas. Little pieces of me have disappeared. My husband and children have seeped into the few things I call mine like spilled milk on a lopsided table. I work, but I don't have an office. I have a small table in my bedroom for a desk, but it's mainly where things are dropped on the way to somewhere else. My kids have what should have been my office for a playroom. They need a safe place to play and it keeps the toys out of the rest of the house-it just makes sense. So for now, I wander with my laptop looking -- for a quiet place for me, and safe place for my laptop. (You can remove permanent marker off your laptop screen with a cotton ball and rubbing alcohol).

I drop the cable bill envelope into the mailbox at the end of the driveway and walk to my car. I fondly remember the truck I once owned. I never liked driving anything predictable. I always found it more fun for people to ask, "You drive THAT?" My most-recent pickup truck was my favorite. It was candy-apple red, extended cab, short box with a killer stereo. What's more, you never saw anyone with a truck like mine-it sure was easy to find in the parking lot. The interior carpet was clean enough for bare feet and the dash always slick with a fresh coat of armor-all. Now, I'm embarrassed to ask anyone if they need a ride. I would first need to wipe clear a mysterious sticky substance which has trapped abandoned batman figures and broken Happy Meal toys. The floor is usually covered with crumbs from chicken nuggets, a few escaped French fries, straw wrappers, and napkins; some used and some not.

The truck I used to have has long since been replaced with a gold minivan (do they ALL have to be gold?) Once I was pregnant with my second son I knew the truck would have to go. My four year old was already complaining about the lousy legroom-a car seat, stroller, and diaper bag would never fit in the truck. The minivan is roomier, has a video system for the kids to watch, and sliding doors make it easier to get them in and out without dinging the car parked entirely too close to me at the grocery store. I swore I'd never drive a minivan. I had driven many different trucks over the past 12 years. I had fought a good fight. But, new keys in hand, I walked across the dealership parking lot and accepted my fate.

Starting up the van I stare at the back of the garage. If I change my name back, I'll offend my husband and confuse my children. I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, but I need to get control before I've been eliminated. Getting out of the minivan I march back to the mailbox and snatch the cable bill. I recklessly rip open the envelope, wasting not only a perfectly good envelope, but the stamp stuck to it as well. I tear the check into pieces, careful to include the signature in my shredding. The cable company will get paid-Claudine McCormack J will be sure to send them a check tomorrow.