What’s In A Name?

I was born on August 28, 1969—ten days after Woodstock. This is pertinent information if you have the need to know anything about me. The era I was born in, as well as the spelling of my name, has created me as much as living with addicts has. Because of my name, I will teach. My name has made me witty. And my name has given me attitude.

Mom was eighteen when I was born. Dad was a drummer in a band, married to someone else, with another family, other children; he had no time for a teenage fan he happened to knock up. So it was Mom and me. Being only eighteen in the latter part of the 60s, Mom felt it necessary to tweak her baby’s name. I was christened Syndee Marie King by a mother who may or may not have been under the influence of a mind-altering drug throughout her pregnancy. I took up residence in an era when young parents rebelled with the names of their children as much as they did with closed fists and burned bras.

As I grew up and noticed the other names of children, I felt grateful that my name was only spelled wrong—other names were just plain wrong. A girl in my ninth grade Algebra class was named Sundae, as in ice cream with whipped cream, nuts, and a cherry on top. Mystikle Rayne was in my graduating class too. The newly-launched pop culture craze, Mtv, featured v-jay Dweezil Zappa. Videos by his sister, Moon Unit ranked high in popularity. Of course, rock stars took the child-naming craze to new levels. The one that disturbed me to the core was Grace Slick and her son named god. As if the small g made it okay. Poor kid grew up and changed his name to John, as the legend goes.

I was lucky. My name was only spelled wrong.

When Mom married Scott, he changed my last name to Cadwallader. Well, not legally, of course; he had no intention of adopting me, a child born with an IQ higher than his ever would be. Scott simply told Mom to start using his name on forms since he was my dad now, and Mom did as she was told. But that is another story for another page. And so I entered the public school system armed with my wit, my intelligence and my names.

I was always surprised when teachers couldn’t pronounce my name. Seven-year-old Syndee Cadwallader was perplexed that college graduates with twenty years of teaching kids how to read couldn’t seem to string together the four syllables that made up my last name.

“Cad wall a der,” I would say to myself. “It’s not that difficult!”

And if the last name was tough, the first name was impossible. These professionals who intended to teach me that “y” is often used as a vowel in the English language could not figure out how to place the vowel between two consonants in a proper manner. Syndee became Sydnee, Synder, Sign-dee, and my favorite, Snydee. Parents named their children crazy things in the 60s, this was true, but Snydee?

As a result of this confusion over my names, I grew up with a belief and attitude that I was smarter than the teachers, and that I could do their job better. By fourth grade, I knew I was going to teach someday, and I knew what to expect on the first day of school. When the teacher got to the Cs, I’d give him or her a chance to get it right, marvel at the level idiocy possessed when he or she couldn’t get it right, and I’d eventually butt in with a haughty but correct pronunciation.

“That’s SIN-dee Cad-WALL-a-der.”

It wasn’t until college that any teacher ever got it right. Apparently, the echo of seven-year-old Syndee observed, they don’t teach proper use and pronunciation of the English language until graduate school.

In addition to the desire to teach--so that at least somebody would be teaching the next generation how to speak our language--I grew up with a need to respond quickly to inquiries about my name, or face a lifetime of giving the same boring answers to the same ridiculous questions. Since I’ve worked retail for most of my life, wearing a name tag has helped inspire both the queries and the quips.

Some of my favorites are:
Customer says, “Is your name Cindy? Wow, that a weird way to spell it.” I say, with a shit-eating grin and a sarcastic tone, “Well, thank you!”

Customer says, “What nationality were your parents? “ I say, “American hippie.”

Customer says, “Well that sure is an interesting way to spell Cindy.” I say, “Well I’m an interesting kind of Syndee.” This response wins as this customer was so astonished he later came back and asked me out.

I have often wondered if the fact that my name houses the word “syn,” albeit misspelled, has influenced my take on God and religion, or if that is an innate characteristic of me. Perhaps by the end of this life, I will have the answer to that lingering question. Either way, my name has been an influence on my personality and my existence. Just another subject to discuss on the couch in the shrink’s office.

Did I Really Just...?

A Play, by Syndee Wood

Characters:
Syndee

Characters heard but not seen:
Vickie: Syndee’s rational voice/self
Sybil: Syndee’s neurotic, fearful voice/self

Setting: Syndee is alone. She is angry at the change in plans, and she is alone now for the rest of the night. Her friends have just left, her kids are gone for the week, and she suddenly finds home to be more than a little eerie. She doesn’t want to sleep there, alone. When they’re home, when the kids are home, Syndee is the protector; she knows the locks and walls are solid. She is confident she can battle whatever bad dares enter their home. But now the house is empty. Syndee is alone. “Who will protect me?” she wonders.

Act One. Scene One.

Vickie: Don’t worry. This house is just as safe tonight as it is when they are here. Those stairs are so loud that anyone climbing them can’t help but be heard. It’s fine. Lock the door. It’s fine.
Syndee: Yes, yes. It is fine.
Sybil: Check the locks one more time.
Syndee (checks the locks, walks up the stairs): Yes, they are loud. The final barricade is noisy too. It’s fine. The rain sounds nice. (Voice Fading into sleep) The rain sounds nice.



Act Two. Scene One.


Sybil: Wake up. Now.

Syndee/Vickie: Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!

Sybil: Run! Balcony! Run!

Syndee scrambles out of bed

Vickie: Who was that? I can’t see! Where did he go?

Sybil: Faster! Balcony! Jump!

Syndee runs to the balcony

Vickie: Where did he go? He’s gonna grab me! Hold the pillow up!

Syndee holds her pillow up behind her, drops it as she steps onto the balcony and closes the door.

Sybil: Run! Faster! Jump!

Vickie: I am outside. He is inside. Jump?

Sybil: Jump! Jump! Jump!

Vickie: Breathe now. Wait. Is this real?

Sybil: Now! Now! Jump now!

Vickie: No face. Wearing my jacket. Is this a dream?

Syndee: Am I awake?

Sybil: Jump! NOW!

Vickie: He was wearing my jacket. He was missing a head. He was missing a face. It was a dream?

Sybil: JUMP!

Syndee: Why am I on the balcony? Is it raining? I am not wearing pants. What am I doing? Is someone in there?

Sybil: No!! He is IN there!

Syndee: I did it again. I am outside this time. I almost jumped. I am in my underwear. Is someone in there? Am I still dreaming?

Syndee opens the door.

Sybil: No. Don’t go back in there. Don’t. Don’t go back in there.


Syndee (steps into the room): Where is the light? Is someone in here? Why is my pillow by the door?
Am I awake? Am I alone?

Sybil: He is in the closet! He is in the bathroom!

Syndee (looks around the room, checks the door, the closet and the bathroom): I am alone. The door is still locked. It was a dream. Just another dream. This time I almost leapt off my balcony. In my underwear. In the rain. This time.

Vickie: It’s fine. Let’s keep the lights on for the rest of the night. It’s fine.

Syndee (sounding relieved): Yes, it is fine. I am alone.

Sybil: Keep the lights on!

Vickie: It’s fine.