Wag the Blog

My name is Dwinn. It’s a weird name. Or, more politely, it’s unusual. If going for complimentary, then it’s unique. As different as it is, apparently it’s deceptively simple. One syllable…D w i n n. Sound’s like “twin” or “schwinn”. I’m constantly amazed at, not only mispronunciations, but at the complete misconceptions I’ve heard throughout my life. Dewayne, Darren, Darlene, Dewon, Derwin, Darwin. I even got a Monika once. Because of years spent in Florida, surrounded by Southerners, I’ve grown accustomed to the 2 syllable version “Duh-winn.”  Growing up with a strange name has been a blessing and a curse. On the positive side, I never have to give my first AND last name when contacting an old high school friend I haven’t talked to in 20 years. When dealing with clients or suppliers at work, I don’t even have to offer my company’s name. ‘Nuff said when “Hi, it’s Dwinn” is uttered. When in social situations, a strange name is usually a pretty decent conversation topic should awkward silences arise. There’s always someone, inevitably, itching to ask “So, how’d you get your name?”

On the upside, I’ve learned to have some fun with it. I’ve developed my own, personal little game to see how many different names I can come up with to give the Starbucks clerks when they’re poised to write my name on an empty Venti Mocha Latte cup. If I’m not feeling particularly creative that day, I normally throw out my backup fakeout “Erin”, my middle name. I have to be careful with that game though. Sometimes memory fails and the clerk will call “Gretchen” 8 times as I sit there like a dufus having forgotten what bogus name I gave 2 minutes earlier. I kind of enjoy the odd looks from hosts and hostesses at restaurants when asked for my name to be put on the waiting list for a table and my stock reply is “Luke”, Swain and faithful dining companion. During my single days, I’d get a kick out of engaging in frivolous conversations with half-wit, drunktards at poolhalls proclaiming “Cleopatra” when asked “Hey, how’s it going? What’s your name?” and launching into a story of how the deceased Egyptian queen is a distant relative. I met Swain at once such place, but he was far from a drunktard. He saw right through my deception and continued to ask for my real name. I told him if it were to be spelled out on a telephone keypad, he’d have to dial 39466. I was impressed when his response was, “How’d you get the name Dwino?”

As entertaining as I try to make it, the sad truth is I’ve missed out on a lot having such a bizarre moniker. Off-the-rack personalized coffee mugs, novelty license plate magnets, barrettes, stationery, mouse pads and the like are all beyond my consumer dollars. Not once have I ever been able to buy a picture frame engraved with “Dwinn” from the shelf. It’s amazing I’ve made it this far without knowing the joy of a Hello Kitty backback scrolled with my name on the pocket. Sigh. During childhood, the other kids would make fun of me with shouting obscenties like “hey, there goes Dwinnie the Pooh.” Bastards. I did get away with skipping days in middle and high school though. The guidance office would always call my parents after work and say “Your son, Dwinn, was not in school today.” When confronted, I’d say “Oh Mom, they obviously got the wrong student. I was there! See, they think I’m a boy…they’re all idiots.”

One of the most traumatizing events happened when I was 5 years old. My passion in life at that time was Raggedy Ann and Andy, fictional characters created in the early 1900’s for a series of children’s books.

I loved them! I had all the Raggedy Ann and Andy products: table mats, cereal bowl, sheets with matching curtains in the room I shared with my brother (he was THRILLED.) My prized possession being a Raggedy Ann rocking chair I got for Christmas. I’d spend hours rocking back and forth reading Raggedy Ann’s Cooking School. One glorious California afternoon, Mom and I set off to the mall upon hearing Raggedy Ann and Andy were going to be signing autographs and taking pictures with local children. My excitement was uncontrollable. We arrived at the mall and hurried in. There they were, right there in real life! I ran up to Raggedy Andy and threw my arms around his big, puffy blue sailor suit. He looked down at me and said, “And what’s your name, little girl?” I lovingly looked up and said, clearly but politely, “Dwinn.” He replied, “Well, hello Dewayne.” Me: “No, it’s Dwinn.” Him: “Oh, I’m sorry Donna”. Me: “NO. It’s DWINN.”  Him: “Oh dear, Dionne?” I punched him in the stomach. Later that day, I replaced all my Raggedy Ann and Andy merchandise with anything and everything Oscar the Grouch. I’m pretty sure that was a pivotal turning point in my personality development.

I have different responses when asked about the origin of my name. Depending on the situation or how long I intend on knowing the person, “Oh, it’s a family name” usually suffices. Upon meeting Swain’s family for the first time, Uncle Matt was the first to inquire about it. Wanting to make a good impression and not come off as some unfriendly snot, I shared the whole story. As a young tot of kindergarten age, my great great grandmother was in school listening to a tale the teacher was reading aloud to the whole class during storytime. A character in the book, as spoken by the teacher, was a little girl named “Dwinn.” My ancestor fell in love with the name. She vowed, then and there, that, if she were to ever have a daughter, that’s what she would call her. My great grandmother was born some 15 years later, coming into the world named Esther Dwinn. Subsequently, her daughter, my grandmother, was Velma Dwinn. My mother then Nancy Dwinn. Why I got it as a first name, I’ll never know. Lucky me. Actually, the story would be quite lovely and quaint if it ended there. Hmph. Years after the 1st Dwinn came into the world, the family was preparing for a reunion. One of the aunts decided it would be great fun to track down the book that was read all those years prior and bring it along. After a prolonged research trek through the local school archives, the story was found. And read. Turns out, there was no character in the book named Dwinn. Evidently, there WAS a term used over and over again…”the wind.” My deaf great great grandmother misheard what the teacher had been saying. What’s interesting to me (and explains a lot about the stubborness of the women in my family) is they continued to name people this ridiculous mistake.

Being the music lover I am, I’ve always wanted to hear my name in song. The closest thing I have is Patrick Swayze’s atrocious “She’s Like the Wind.” Aforementioned Swain is a exceptionally talented songwriter and musician. My numerous requests for a personalized love song have gone unrequited for far too long. Hope springs eternal.