Roene Down the River! by Ms. G.

"And this month's student of the month is...Roene Gharda!"

I couldn't believe it! I had worked so hard to gain the approval of my fifth grade teacher and it seemed like my dream had come true: she had chosen me to be Student of the Month. I could picture my parents when I got home with my certificate: they would hug me and ask me where I wanted to take the family to celebrate that night, grabbing me by the hand to lead me outside and watch as they proudly stuck their new "My Child was Student of the Month at E. Hale Curran" bumper sticker on our family van, my brothers flinching with envy as my mom and dad sang the praises of their one good child, turning on Chris, Jon, and Matt with demands about why they couldn't be more like their sister... I couldn't wait. But first it was time for me to march up proudly, before all of the other students who would be astounded by my greatness, to receive my reward from the principal.

I should have known better. Snickers erupted around an obnoxious chorus of "Roene, Roene, Roene down the river!" As my cheeks flushed fire, I turned around to greet the smug faces of a line of sixth graders: my older brother had just informed his friends about my real name and decided it was good fodder for one of his spontaneous pranks. The first in a history that would haunt the halls of the schools I would have to attend in his trail, ending with my senior year when my AP Government teacher turned to me on the first day of school to say, "Well, I certainly hope you're not like your brother," bitter about the year before when Chris had taught another student how to mix chemicals to start a fire in his classroom trash can.

I have always hated my first name for this and many other reasons: I was named Roene after my mom, grandma, and great-grandma. Even though it was clear that the tradition should have died when my grandma decided to call my mom by her middle name, Kathy, as I go by mine, Nicole, my mom refused to be the one courageous enough to put an end to the outmoded family ritual. Every time I sat in a class at the beginning of a new school year, I had to wait with baited breath to see how the teacher, after pausing and looking at their roster with a puzzled expression on their face, would butcher my name before I could cut them off and let them know they could call me "Nicole," the kids laughing while the teacher gave a look of relief more befitting of dodging a bullet than pronouncing a name that is a little different than Jennifer or Kelly.

The worst part is the story of its origin. My great-great grandma came up with the name after giving birth to twins. Loving the name of Irene and Sir Walter Scott's character Rowena from the book Ivanhoe, she decided she wanted their names to rhyme, so she changed the spelling and pronunciation. I wouldn't mind Rowena so much, though it doesn't seem to fit me as well as it fit for my blond Scottish foremothers since it means "fair-haired maiden." But Roene? Just a bad attempt at rhyme that makes this English major cringe...