Mythologies are filled with stories of the unlucky number 13. Zeus was the 13th god, too powerful for his own good. Eve offered the apple to Adam on the 13th day. Judas was the 13th man invited to The Last Supper. Born on the 13th, I was unlucky enough to inherit a name that was my own curse: Daphne.
When I start school, a freckled boy hears the teacher call my name and asks,
“WHAT’S your name?”
“Daphne.”
“Kathy?”
“No, Daphne.”
“Taffy?”
NO! DAPHNE!”
“I know!,” he smirks, “Daffy! Like Daffy Duck!” bringing the whole class to stitches.
Why did my parents name me DAPHNE, uncommon, hard to pronounce, a name that makes people squint and giggle?
I fume at them for this incurable affliction.
“Why did you name me THAT?”
“It’s a Greek tradition. You were named after your grandmother. Your brother was named after your grandfather. He’s not complaining!”
My brother’s name is Bill.
Though I resent the name, my grandmother is someone I revere. Each morning, she puts on her house dress and inside shoes. She grabs a feather duster, flaps it like a wing to start her day. She’s a bird in flight, upending all debris from the day before, humming a low melody as if calling to a long lost time in her past. A maestro of the morning, she shoos away all in her path, including her chatty granddaughter who asks too many questions.
Once the duster is tucked away, the first movement ends and the poetry begins. Red chipped mixing bowls, an old broom handle for rolling filo dough, and dented baking pans appear. I push a chair to the counter, stand on it, and hope she will not think me in the way. She pulls the chair closer, tells me in broken English,
“You watch. You learn.”
The symphony continues with her humming. Spinach and cheese, scented rice, honey and walnuts surround us. Like lyrics, there are sweet morsels like baklava to taste, the savory scents of spanakopita and bread on the rise, intoxicating aromas of her history and, because she lets me watch, my future.
Eventually, I muster my courage. Wanting to know more about her and the name we both bear, I ask,
“When did you come to America? Why? How did you get your name?”
She pauses. Her headshake and downward glance tell me the subject is closed.
I approach my father. A reticent man, he tells me her story in his matter-of-fact way.
“She was sent to America as a young girl for an arranged marriage. Her mother was long gone, and her father was ailing. He did it to keep her safe. Her name is a tradition, passed down to her, and now to you.”
Unsatisfied, I turn to my mother, who knows of my name discontent by my tearful outbursts after being teased in school.
Though money is tight, she buys a second-hand book filled with the great mythologies of my heritage. She turns the pages and finds the story of the naiad nymph Daphne. One fateful day, the powerful god Apollo flies over the forest in his golden chariot, his heart pierced by the arrow of Cupid at the first sight of her. Fleeing, she turns to her river father to be saved. She feels her feet take root on the bank. Sunlit, her upraised arms turn into branches, her fingers to leaves, white blossoms appearing throughout, saving her from Apollo. Devastated, Apollo honors his love for her by crowning all who win challenges at ancient Olympic games with a wreath of leaves from the tree of Daphne.
The story of my name gives me pause. I think of my grandmother, her father saving her from being alone and fearful, sending her to an unknown land to grow new roots and branches, to wear the crown of family.
F or the first time in my life, I’m grateful for the name I’ve been given to honor her. It is no longer a curse wrought by the 13th day of my birth, but instead a name to keep me safe.
People still ask me where I got my name. I tell them I inherited it from my grandmother, so given because of the ancient Greek myth of a brave girl who saved herself from being taken, always remembering to honor her roots, wave her branches, and face the sun, unafraid.