WHO AM I

WHO AM I

I AM WHO I AM . . BUT WHO IS THAT?

? ? ? ? ?

Maybe before I try to figure out who I am, I should talk a bit about my family. That might help a bit to explain the confusion I’ve inflicted on others for all these years. I suppose I should apologize for that but, hey, I am who I am – I think!

My mom had three younger brothers all who were extremely opinionated. The older they got, the less they wanted to be bothered with family matters. They didn’t hang out as friends even though they were only two years apart in age. No one really knows the reason they pulled away from their family. It only became worse when they all survived World War II.

As the years passed, all four siblings married. The three brothers moved away. Mom stayed in the city to care for her mother who lived around the corner and needed daily injections of insulin.

My mom was the first of her children to get pregnant. My brother was born on a cold February afternoon.

As each of my grandmother’s other children announced they, also would become parents, my grandmother had one request: should a girl be born, would they call her Margaret after her mother. All the sons said no. The name was too old-fashioned. “And besides, it isn’t like we ever met our grandmother, now, is it?” That’s true. My great-grandmother passed away from a serious illness when my grandmother was only 15 years old.

Okay, that said, my mother was positive she was having another son. The pregnancies were identical. She too, would have preferred a more modern name for a daughter but as I said, she was positive she’d have another son.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” she said. “If I have a girl, we’ll name her Margaret.”

My grandmother was beyond thrilled.

To my mom’s utter surprise, on a very chilly May morning in 1947, my dad drove her to the hospital. Within an hour, I came screaming and hollering into the world. Yep, I had to make my presence known to everyone within earshot – and those further away.

Mom kept her promise and called me Margaret (for her grandmother) and Agnes (for her mom). Yep, Maggie Aggie is who I am – I think!

NOW, I should backtrack to 1945.

My parents were married in February 1944 just after my dad joined the Navy and entered World War II. Before shipping out for the Pacific Theater, he came home sometime in May of 1944, for a weekend’s leave. Little did they know that the weekend would create my brother.

Frankie was born February of 1945 while my dad was still on his ship.

While dad was away, Frankie became mom’s world. She read him stories, sang songs, took him on walks in the local park. He was her everything. Should a story or song have a child’s name in it, she always changed that name to Frankie. It was mom’s way of trying to make up for the absence of her child’s dad.

JUMPING now to 1946.

Dad’s home from the war and adapting to the roles of husband, father, and family’s breadwinner.

Suddenly, mom announces that she’s pregnant. She’s overjoyed knowing that she won’t have to face this new birth alone.

That’s when she made her promise to her mother. Dad had no objection. He often said that as long as the baby was healthy, he’d be fine with whatever came along.

Back in those days, new moms and babies faced a required six-day stay in the hospital.

For the first four days, moms, with the exception of using the bathroom, weren’t even allowed out of bed.

Six days after my howling announcement of my birth, dad brought mom and me home.

My grandmother was at our apartment tending to my 27-month-old brother.

Mom carried me up the three-floors and dad opened the door for us.

Mom walked in and knelt down to show her son his new little sister.

“Hello, Frankie. I missed you so much, but I have a surprise for you. This is your new baby sister. Her name is Margaret.”

My brother took one look at me and screamed, “NO NO! Her name not Maaaagit. Dat it Donnie.”

What????

Oh, yeah, being only 27-months old, most of what came out of his mouth was baby-gibberish. Let me decipher for you.

“No, No, Her name is not Margaret. That is Donnie.”

Mom hugged her son. “No, sweetie, her name is Margaret and she’s your little sister.”

Frankie screamed again. “NO, dad Donnie! Dat my didter!”

Translation: “No, that Donnie. That my sister.”

Keep in mind, at his babyish age, he had a struggle with certain vowels and consonants.

No matter how my parents tried to convince him my name was Margaret, he’d scream louder and louder. He started allowing himself to drop to the floor, kicking his feet in a temper tantrum.

They didn’t want to punish him fearful that might make him believe they favored me over him. Yet, nothing they tried worked.

More often, he’d scream and cry himself to sleep. My parents were out of ideas on what to do. When my grandmother arrived for her daily insulin injection, they asked if she’d stay a bit longer and see if she had any better ideas.

My grandmother sat my brother on her knee and asked, “How is your little sister?”

Frankie replied, “Dees bootful.”

Translation: “She’s beautiful.”

Grandmother: “Frankie why do you call her Donnie?”

Frankie looked confused as if she completely didn’t understand. (Well, ah, hello! NONE of us understood.)

Frankie spoke, “Nanna, I Fwakie, Dat Donnie. Dees my feetheart.”

Ah, that proverbial lightbulb.

Translation: “Nanny, I Frankie. That Donnie. She’s my sweetheart.”

When my dad was away doing his part in the war, one of my brother’s favorite songs was “Frankie and Johnny were Sweethearts.”

Now that all the adults were aware of my brother’s logic, what should they do about it?

My grandmother’s wisdom prevailed, “We’ll just have to call her Donnie until Frankie’s old enough to understand.”

My brother was a very intelligent little boy but as he turned three, I had gotten so used to being called “Donnie”, that I never answered or even acknowledged “Margaret” as who I was (or am).

PRESENT DAY

Here we are in the year 2023. My parents and brother have been “gone” many years now. I am 76 years old (young? Whatever!) and legally, I’m still Margaret. All my legal papers tell me that, but most who know me, either don’t know or seem to forget that. To them, I am, always was, and always will be “Donnie.”

It’s who I am . . . . I think!