They Call Me Grace

I was nearly 8 years old when my baby sister was born. This was quite fortunate since I was well adept at reading. I was tired of my name. Nancy. So plain. The Sunday comics included a comic strip called Nancy. She hung out with her stupid little boyfriend named Russell, was very boring and cried all the time.

Why would parents who love their child name her such a boring name? I assumed they had run out of originality by this point. I was, after all, their third child. There was Mike, then Suzy, after me they had Joey (short for Joanne) and finally Jene Marie. The "j" a soft French slur. It was fitting. We had a French surname. But clearly Jene Marie was their crowning glory. Do I hate for taking all the love from my parents and hogging it for herself? Of course not. She's my sister. She's my baby sister. But if I happen to feel the need to speak to her when she's at work, I always ask for her by using both names; Jene Marie (with the schwa). I don't want her to be confused with some other Jene (with the schwa). She always knows it's me and she tends to answer tersely. Go figure.

Back to 1973, I found a baby name book. I looked up Nancy to find out the meaning.

Nancy - Grace; attractiveness, charm, gracefulness, comeliness, ease. Seemingly effortless beauty or charm of movement, form, or proportion.

None of those words seemed to fit me.

In junior high I found it was really irony. One morning I ran out of my bedroom and, not paying attention to all of my appendages, I smacked my hand against a door frame. I broke my hand.

Another snowy morning while running to catch the bus as it waited for me, I slipped on the driveway for everyone to see.

My most anticipated day was in the 7th grade when I finally got fashion boots and wore them to school. I was stylin'. Before school even started, a 9th grade boy, in an effort to be funny, stuck his foot out and tripped me. All my books and papers went flying, as did my pride. Nobody stopped to help me pick up my books or catch the papers drifting down.

Later that day as I carried my tray of food in the lunchroom, my awkward boot caught on a leg of a chair. I went down again, scattering lasagna all over the industrial carpet and my new boots. I was mortified. A few minutes later I fell down the stairs. It was boots, I swear.

At the end of the day, I was exhausted and I hated school, my boots, and especially myself. Carrying my books once again through the crowded halls, the same 9th grade boy stuck out his foot. I stumbled, fumbled, and fell. The other students cleared a place for my fall and continued on. Déjà vu. But this time I was mad.

"Gosh! Dangit! (I didn't swear back then) That's the second time you have done that to me today!" I yelled at him, as I picked myself back up to glare at him. He was tall. He was big. And I'd never taken on a 9th grader before (except my sister, Suzy, but that's another novella). As my eyes kept going up higher and higher, I finally found his face and indignantly looked at his eyes. His eyes reflected my insecurity from a few minutes before. The boy was tall, zitty, and goofy looking. He dropped his eyes immediately upon being challenged, apologized profusely, and helped me pick up my books.

I'd love to write that I've never fallen, sprawled, or clumsily tripped again (my dad lovingly called me "clutz."), but I'd be lying. But for a few minutes and, perhaps for the first time, I experienced how it felt to possess grace. Grace is powerful, resilient, and elegant. She also sees weakness and forgives. Grace never saw that boy again. Grace also retired those boots.

I think my parents loved me, after all.