Everyone hates his or her given name. Unless your name is Cole, Dash,
or Colin Farrell you grow dreading role call when they butcher your name.
Luckily, I’m not in school anymore and this is finally all behind
me. Or so I thought.
Apartment office: Hello.
Me: Hi! I have a package coming in. Can my roommate pick it up? I have
to work late this week.
Office: Sure! What’s your name sweetie?
Me: Lonnie.
Office. Got it.
Me: Wait. Can you repeat that back?
Office: Ryan.
Me: No. It’s LONNIE.
Office: Oh. Thanks Ryan.
Me: No. Lonnie. L-O-N-N-I-E.
Office: No problem Ryan, it’s waiting right here.
Me: Arrgh!
I don’t have a lisp. I thought I did when I was little, but I was
put in speech class with all the other gay boys for about a year and which
seemed to clear it up. Or maybe our end of the year play was so successful
they graduated us on pure charm. We gave the entire school marshmallows
during our re-enactment of the "Only you can prevent forest fires"
campaign. Food will get you out of anything, even today, when you can
trade a box of Kirspy Kreme donuts for an oil change. However, whenever
I get my car fixed it’s always the same ordeal.
Attendant: I’m sorry, we don’t have you on our list.
Me: I made the appointment last week. Can you check again?
Attendant: I’m sorry, sir. We do have an opening at noon, would
you like to wait?
Me: Um, no. I have to be at work by eleven. It’s only eight now.
Attendant: There’s nothing I can do.
Me: Can I see your list?
Attendant: I guess…
Me: See I’m right here. "Monty Capia." That’s me!
That’s me! Lonnie Tapia.
Later in life, I realized that my name was actually a blessing in the
gay world, in fact it was damn cool. "Hi, my name’s Lonnie.
Can I Top-yah?" *wink*
Last week, I decided I’d write my fellow congressman in hopes
that he would support a certain gay bill. Hey, at least he got my name
right.
