When I was born, my father said, let's name her Nina June, the "I" in Nina being a long I, not a short i.
NineofJune, Nina June, that was my father's sense of humor. Quiet and stealth, and when he'd slide one in to home plate, he caught everyone off guard. My brother inherited that ability. He doesn't say much, but when he pipes up with the wisecrack, it's always the one thing you wouldn't have thought of. That rare breed of sense of humor represents an uncanny way of connecting with people--humor improvisation. Read the moment, interpret it back, surprise them all.
So I wasn't named Nina June, but I was named Jeneane, which is close enough to June 9 in its own right to have made my father happy.
I have always loved my name.
All during my school years, the Heathers and Susans and Allisons in my gang of friends hated their names. "I hate my name!" It was the cliche teenage suburban complaint. Too few other worries. One's name is easy fodder for self loathing. Or drama.
I would always announce back proudly, "I love my name." Maybe that's because I know the story of my naming, that I was almost Nina June, that they let my sister have the honor of spelling "Jeneane," and that she was nine, learning "the first vowel talks and the second vowel walks," which explains her choice of the "ea" in the middle. There aren't many of us. Maybe that's why I like my name.
Maybe it's because I could have been Nina June.
Maybe it's because I still miss my daddy.
Now for what will be another year of my life. This year will be my 35th year without him. It's hard to face your own mortality at six because your father had to face his. Each year it gets a little harder. I've been on borrowed time for a lot of years--at least on the clock I've kept for myself.
It made so much more sense a year, a decade, afterward. With each year I lose more of his face, his voice, his touch, his music, his smile. Now when they come, they surprise me. Except for Nina June.
Nina June is always with me.
