Darla's Name
Chapter 1
Most people would say I came into the world in the usual way. In a hospital, with mom, a doctor and nurses, bright lights, a little screaming, and welcome to the world Darla.
But as we all know the usual way is a little different for each of us. Mom was not as young as she was for my older brother and sister. She went into labor early in the day, but I was already 10 days late. Dad was at work; more on that later. She drove herself to the hospital. Her water broke right there in the hospital entrance.
This is all hearsay for me, seeing as I was not quite there yet for the first half of the story, and I was kind of busy the second half. I had to learn new things, like breathing, figuring out what that bright light was, and what was that loud noise. Found out later that noise was probably me, learning to use the lungs that hadn't done much for the past few months. Anyway, I have it on good word that this is a true and accurate story of my first days. Mom's told it to me several times now, especially the part about how much work, the hours of labor, how hard it was for her. She reminds me about that a lot.
After she got into her labor room, which she had to share with another soon to be mom, the nurses got her all settled and said the doctor would be right in. After an hour or so the doctor eventual stopped in. He told her she had a while to wait yet. But mom knew it shouldn't be too long, as she already had done this twice before, and she told the nurses so.
So there she was, by her self waiting for me to arrive. Not exactly alone. There was the moaning roommate, the occasional nurse peeking in, the doctor stopping in every few hours. Yes, it was becoming hours. She was wrong about this being quick, this was not like it was before.
Mom was supposed to get the birthing room. A nice, private, well decorated room with special birthing bed, soothing music, privacy. But someone was already there; first come first served. I guess you can’t take something like that away from someone in her condition once they have it. So, no nice comfy birthing room for mom. Not that she would have been comfortable anywhere at that point.
Her room mate eventually progressed enough and was moved, still moaning, to the delivery room. Mom was still alone. Dad should have been out of work, it was now late in the day. Mom talked to him earlier and he knew this was my big day. But now, it was after dinner time, and no dad yet. Well, not dinner time for mom, no food allowed at this point in the delivery process. Mom dined on soothing ice chips, and I believe she's reminded me a few times about that quality meal.
Nurses were still politely stopping in every few minutes, and the doctor stopped in when he had time, which wasn't very often. Mom was getting kinda tired. She was also starting to give dad, and me, some choice new names I'm not allowed to repeat yet.
The doctor starting using words like, "Not making progress", and "Stress on the baby's heart." Hey, that's my heart you’re talking about!
The doctor finally tells mom they have to try something or it will be a c-section. Well, mom didn't want surgery, so she said, whatever it is, let's try it. This something was a drug called "Pitocin", it was suppose to be the magic baby making drug. A muscle stimulant, it was supposed to push me out quick. And apparently it worked wonders. Mom said it was quite an intense 45 more minutes until my grand arrival. It also did some funny things to some blood vessels on moms face. It was some pretty powerful stuff. She didn't like that when saw her face latter, and I believe she had a few more choice new names for me. Thankfully not my real name because they were again words I'm still not allowed to use.
As I said, 45 minutes after the Pitocin started, I finally arrive. I arrived at 6:38 AM, labor stated about 7:30 AM, yesterday. Mom still reminds me about the 23 hours of labor, and especially what the Pitocin did to her, even though the red blotches cleared up within a day or two.
You remember dad, I mentioned him earlier. A few minutes after my arrival dad also arrives, just late enough to miss my grand entrance. He always did seem to have good timing to miss the important things in life. And as usual, as I later found out myself, he made a stop after work. Actually, dad had left work when mom called early in the day, told work he had to leave immediately, "Baby on the way." But he made a long stop before finally arriving, actually a couple of stops, a nap, and more stops on his way to the hospital. Here's where the story about my name really starts.
Dad arrives in usual form. Mom's done with all the hard work and needs her rest. Dad staggers in, slurring terribly. He demands to be allowed to make the grand gesture, or is it the grand jester? Yes, before 7:00 in the morning dad was already in his usual condition. The hospital staff were reluctant to let him in, he was so drunk. But mom talked them into letting him in, as long as the baby (that's me remember) was not also in the room at the time. The hospital was very protective of their little patients.
He stumbles in, as I was told - remember I was kind of busy at the time learning to breath and stuff. He's got flowers, and has a story about why he's late. Of course it's not his fault; it never is! Mom just wants sleep, but she entertains him for an hour, mostly so he doesn't bother the staff and get himself in trouble. Eventually, sleep wins over. Despite trying to stay awake, after 23 hours of labor, and another hour of dad, sleep finally overtakes her. Why were you so tired mom, just a few more minutes and this story would have had a totally different ending.
Just as mom starts snoozing away, a well deserved rest, a person walks in with the paperwork to fill out for the birth certificate. And there's dad. If only she came a few minutes sooner, or even a few minutes later because dad would have left within minutes of mom falling asleep. But timing is everything.
She sees dad's "condition" and offers to come back later. Dad, totally unaware of his condition, insists he can handle the situation. She’s the hospital staff person with the all important paper on her clipboard, and she just hands it over to dad. Now, dad was fully aware of what my name was "supposed" to be. But in his current state of unclarity, dad filled in the form, sealing my fate as my first day in this world arrives.
My name, as I have been told by mom many times was supposed to be Jennifer Darlene. While I don't think I would have been thrilled with Jennifer, Jenn, or Jenny, it would have been better than the final result I am now labeled with. The hospital worker with the clipboard probably didn't even look at the form after dad was finished. He can be quite annoying, as even I learned in the following years. It was processed and what finally appeared on my birth certificate was Jeffiner Darlene.
When mom saw it a couple days later she complained, "complained" would be a mild word for it from what I've been told, using some more of the nice words I'm not allowed to use. They told her there was nothing that could be done. The Birth Certificate was already done. That was, is, my name.
So you can call me Darla. But if I hear Jeffiner, Jeff, Jar, JD, or anything else closely resembling my real name, don't expect me to come running, except maybe with a fist.
Chapter 2
People can be cruel. Children can be the cruelest people of all. And cruelty from your friends can be the worst form of cruelty.
So, when you’re a nice, quiet, sensitive, friendly 6 year old girl, cruelty from your friends, your BEST friends can be devastating.
I was having trouble reading. I hated the alphabet. Even at six, I wasn't great with the alphabet, and was terrible at reading. When it was my turn in class to read, and the teacher made all of us read almost every day, it was humiliating. Humiliating to the point of pain. Especially when my FRIENDS laughed at me.
I didn't just hate reading, I hated everything to do with school. I just had trouble figuring out what the letters were. I knew I was smart. I could remember almost everything. In fact, that’s how I avoided many embarrassing reading incidents. Even with my bad hearing, I had heard most of what was read at least once before, so I could often recite the words from memory, even if I couldn't read them.
But by half way through first grade it became clear to me that memory wasn't enough. In school there were a lot of books no one ever read to me before. And my hearing was getting worse, so I missed more and more of what was read to me. Avoiding school would have to be the answer. So I tried the fake "I'm sick, mommy" scam. I really was sick a lot when I was little so that got me off a couple times. But mom was pretty smart too. Mom would say, "Let me feel your temperature." I'd follow up with, "But mom, it's my throat." "OK, open up and let me have a look", would be mom's reaction.
Next thing I knew, I'd be out the door, on my way to another horrid day in school.
By the middle of first grade, my mom and teacher were at a loss. They would ask me why I was having trouble now, after being able to do some reading before. I was getting worse rather than better. I had done such a good job of using my memory to hide my reading problem, no one had figured out I couldn't read up to now. When I told them I never could read, and that before I was just repeating from memory, they were rather shocked. At least I think it was shock. They both just stared at me with eyes wide, mouth hanging open, kind of a blank stupid look. I almost laughed, but held it in because I knew I was in trouble, and didn't want it getting any worse.
Finally the teacher said, "Has Darla had her eyes examined?"
So, off we go to the eye doctor. And, sure enough, I'm blind as a bat. Not too bad with distance, but anything up close is, well, just one big fuzz ball. Far sighted with a strong amount of astigmatism.
I spent about an hour, or two (an eternity for mom, "You’ve tried those on twice already."), as I looked through every eyeglass frames in the store at least two, three, maybe four times. And it was a big store with a huge selection. Maybe it was because my eyesight was so bad, I couldn't see what the glasses looked like, so I couldn't pick out ones I liked. Finally I picked out what I hoped was a great pair of eyeglasses. Then I had to wait a few days while the glasses were made. I didn't understand why I had to wait. I had my eye test, failed miserably, and searched to find the perfect frames. Why did I have to wait days longer? I guess all six year olds are impatient.
Well, a few days later, mom and I return to the eyeglasses store. I try on the glasses. The nice lady behind the counter spent a lot of time putting the glasses on me, taking them off and adjusting them, asking me how they felt, and doing it all over again. And again. And again. Finally I said, "Please miss, can I have my glasses, they're perfect." So after a few more questions about how they fit, she finally let me keep them.
They were thin silver frames with small oval lenses. I looked in the mirror and was shocked. I could really see myself. Not the blurry fuzz I usually see in the mirror, but a real me. I looked around, everything was new, like I had never seen anything before in my life. Which was actually quite true, my poor eyes had never really seen the real world. I grabbed a leaflet off the counter, showed it to mom and said, "Mom, is this writing, is this words?" She said "Yes, of course it is." Then, with tears in my eyes because I could actually see the letters I said, "Mom, I can see the letters, teach me to read this." I'm pretty sure mom cried a little, too. Well maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration, but I do remember being excited about finally being able to really see.
I had some idea about the alphabet; if the letters had been large enough I could kind of make them out before. So learning the alphabet, now that I could actually see the letters, was easy. Learning to make works out of the letters took a little longer. Especially after my first day back at school with my new, wonderful, glasses.
Remember what I said about cruelty.
The morning after picking up my glasses, actually looking forward to school for the first time in forever, I arrive. Smiling, thinking today would be a perfect day at school.
I wasn't the only one in my class with glasses. But still, my FRIENDS looked at me, pointed at my face, giggled, and started commenting on my great new glasses. "You got glasses." "You're not just stupid, you're blind too." "They look just like my Grammy’s glasses." And of course the old standard "Four eyes." And a lot of other stuff I don't remember, except that it all hurt.
One comment was about the color of the glass frames. I heard someone say "You got tin can colored glasses." I immediately corrected that one, telling them they were silver eyeglasses.
That lead to the worst comment that started as something like, "Now you got silver eyes." That quickly led to my new name, "Darla Silvereyes." Through the cruelty of children, I was christened with a name I never forgot, a name I hated. A name that I would, years later, actually come to cherish. In the years to come, I made up many stories about the great, adventurous, heroic Darla Silvereyes.
But that day, that tear filled cloudy morning, no longer were they "my new, wonderful, glasses." I hated them, and my friends. And I made sure they all knew how much I hated them all, as I threw my glasses in the floor and stamped on them. Later, I tried putting the mangled glasses back on, but they were beyond hope of ever providing me with that glorious new world.
I was back into the world of near blindness. Part of the blindness, the blindness of hatred. After I realized what I had done, destroying my new link to the world of sight, I spent the rest of the day thinking, while my friends spent the rest of the day in cruelty that comes so naturally to some children.
Because of cruelty, I lost not only my FRIENDS, but also my new world. Even without the glasses on, holding the mangled mess in my hands, my FRIENDS made sure I was fully aware of my new name. Hearing "Darla Silvereyes" for the rest of that day.
After school, in tears again, I showed mom the mangled mess, and told her the story. She was angry, but said we would try to get them replaced.
A few days later, back at school with my newly replaced glasses, the chant of "Darla Silvereyes" continued for a while. It was days before I would talk again to any of my FRIENDS. However, my new world opened great new possibilities. Even though I was never the best reader in the class, I did get better. I still hated reading for a while because I was still laughed at a lot when I read out load. Poor vision was only one of my problems with reading and speaking. It took a more than a year, but my new world of reading later became a hunger, an insatiable appetite. The world of reading became my best friend, and the taunts of "Darla Silvereyes" became just distant memories. I no longer heard the chant of Darla Silvereyes, and it disappeared quickly as other targets of cruelty were found.
There were few classmates that I remained friendly with, but those FRIENDS that crushed my spirit that first day with glasses were cast forever from my thoughts. They existed as a distant annoyance from that day forward, acknowledging their existence only when it was absolutely unavoidable.
But, on that tear filled cloudy morning, the adventurous Darla Silvereyes was born.
Update: I wanted my name changed, to fix the mess dad had made. Mom had refused to do anything about my first name, it's on my birth certificate, as dad had written it, it was my name. I'm now 18, and I decided to take action. I went to the county offices, found the forms, filled them out and submitted them with all the additional paperwork, and after the waiting period, I am now Jennifer Darlene. I was able to finally fix one of the messes dad had left for me. I did have to update my drivers license and S/S card. But as least as I start college, I'm not totally embarrassed every time I need to show my ID.
