Memoirs of an Outstanding* Teen

Chapter 32: Do Your Parents Hate You

It could have been my Afrikaans teacher who, again guilt-stricken, put in a good word for me, but the principal called my name on the intercom one morning to go speak on an Afrikaans radio station on behalf of the school. A couple of my other classmates were called in as well. Something very strange happened when I got into the office. I can't help but tell it.

I waited a few minutes in the lobby with my classmates, while he was, I guess, finishing some admin task. When he finally called us in, we greeted him like a failing sync team, with everybody starting their "Mȏre Meneer" (Morning sir) a few seconds after somebody else so that we ended up sounding like a bunch of bees.

He swiveled his chair, turned to one of my classmates and said a couple of words. Then he turned in my direction, and said, "Do your parents hate you?"

Of all the things I expected him to say to me, I would have never expected that. I was surprised, shocked to me more accurate. What in the world would make him ask that? So, with a very curt tone, I asked back, "Why?"

"Why did they give you such an ugly name?"

I wish I was kidding. But yes, that's what he asked. He, the highly-esteemed principal of my school, the man that made everyone pull out a book and pretended to read whenever he passed by a class, the Mr. Van Zyl that everyone spoke of with so much admiration sat on his pricey office chair, and asked me, why my parents gave me such and ugly name.

Now, I will be the first to say, I am no Clara Smith. My name does not roll smoothly on the tongue. My name does not sound romantic. My name would never be used in a popular love song or an Elizabethan English poem. My name will forever be mispronounced and misspelt.

My name is Nelusigwe Mbingu, and I know there is no chicness or pizazz in that. I have accepted that. I know, I don't have a name that would be suggested on "Babynames.com." I have accepted that. I don't have the best name in the world, I know that. But for him to ask me so blatantly, so brazenly, so unapologetically why my parents gave me an ugly name? What?!

I wish I had come up with something smart and witty to say. Something that would have silenced him, made him never say that to a single soul ever again. But no, my response was pathetic. I ended up stuttering something about my name having a good meaning, and he just went on to talk about his own name and his five thousand middle names. If only NASA was done with those time machines...