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Dear Reader,
Today's Dear Reader Column is written by Margaret Collier, one of the runner-up winners in this year's Write a Dear Reader Contest. Margaret goes by many names, as you'll read about in her column. Peggy is the name she uses in the "I'm not here, leave a message on her answering machine." I'm told that it's not uncommon for someone named Margaret to call herself Peggy. But in Margaret, or Peggy, Jack, Molly, George's or Sasha's case, I think Margaret is still exploring--which in my book, is a good thing!
Enjoy her column. I sure did!
--Suzanne Beecher
Which I Wasn't
My name is Jack.
Well, it would've been Jack, if I'd been allowed to name myself. Which I wasn't.
I so wanted to be a Jack that my parents said I could officially change my name to Jack on my eighth birthday. I couldn't wait for that day to come.
The whole thing was a dismal failure. Not only could my friends and family not remember to call me Jack (which my parents had promised only to trial for one month), I myself forgot my name. This whole situation was exacerbated by the fact that I was a girl (had I mentioned that?) and Jack is a boy's name. Unless you're Jacqueline, like in Jacqueline Kennedy. Which I wasn't.
Not to be dissuaded, I changed my name regularly. So regularly, in fact, that everyone but me tired of the novelty. My teachers thought I had an identity crisis that needed to be treated by someone qualified. This was teacher-speak in the fifties for a "psychologist," a word only whispered in good families. Psychologists were for treating crazy people. Which I wasn't.
I never tired of my eccentricity. My parents finally decided they'd rather switch than fight, so they smiled nervously at my adventure, sighing with resignation to each other, but gaily (albeit nervously) offered a "the best defense is a strong offense" grin to any skeptic who dared to hint that I was being foolish. Which I wasn't.
One day my parents told my uncle that I changed names more often than I changed my underwear. Then they realized a strange inverse connection between these two seemingly unrelated events.
"Can I be Leonarda from now on?"
"Did you change your underwear?"
"Yes."
"Don't be late for school, Leonarda."
Eventually and not without considerable embarrassment, I ostensibly "outgrew" this extraordinary behavior, much to the relief of parents, relatives, and educators everywhere.
Adolescence and the accompanying peer pressure, notwithstanding their late arrival, stifled and eventually extinguished Jack, Nora, Jude, Leonarda, Molly, Caroline, David; and Ben, Martha and George (my Revolutionary period), Dennis, Maria, Emily, Sasha, Christine, and a myriad of others. But I'll tell you a secret. Each served a purpose. Each helped me experiment with life, with learning, with love. They allowed me to explore friendships, faith, and failure. Most of all, they all made me feel strong and confident and fearless. Which I wasn't.
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MOTOR CITY SHAKEDOWN by D.E. Johnson
AS FAR AS THE HEART CAN SEE by Mark Nepo
A HEART REVEALED by Julie Lessman
FROM ASHES TO HONOR by Loree Lough
THE CHRISTMAS SHOPPE by Melody Carlson
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AUTHORBUZZ: FROM ASHES TO HONOR by Loree Lough
Minutes before two jumbo jets changed U.S. history, NY police officer Austin Finley ignored a call from his brother. Trying to live with his one regret causes hatred and bitterness to consume Austin, and when counselor Mercy Samara recommends desk duty, Austin resigns. Haunted by her own memories of 9/11, Mercy takes a job as a school counselor in Baltimore. When Austin, now an EMT, responds to an emergency at Mercy's school, both are stunned.
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