To All The Old Men in My Life & Then Some

A 35mm photograph of my Grandfather. August 2022. Porta 400.

My grandfather’s name is Richard Ray. It was tradition on his father’s side to gift all the son’s in the family the middle name of their father’s first name. His brother however was named Raymond something or other and then in part became a junior–although my grandfather does not agree that much with the politics surrounding the title of junior considering his father’s name was Ray not Raymond. My Grandfather goes by neither Richard or Ray, but rather the nickname Dick, but I call him Papa. He has striking white hair and tends to wear the same shirt for two days in a row. 

My great grandfather and his brothers had the middle name Nick. I am not sure if my great great grandparents ran out of names or liked the sound of it, but my grandfather had an uncle by the name of Nick Nick. A name so nice it was given twice to the same person. 

My name is Caroline Claire. My Mother has explained to me numerous times the etymology of my name and how it means a lot of things. Her name is Catherine Leanne, but she was either named after a Catherine Claire or Claire was going to be her middle name. So, that is where the Claire comes from. My Father’s first name is Carlos, but he goes by Al–an ethnically ambiguous nickname of his middle name Alfredo. My Mother explains to me that Caroline is some sort of feminine version of Carlos. I forget to tell people I am named after my father. I fantasize about revealing this information to someone because I imagine it makes me an inch more interesting than the next confused twenty something girl.

A stranger approaches me at a gas station in the middle of the desert. The gas station T.V. is trying to sell people microwavable food which is delivered to their door and “could” help them lose up to 80 lbs— like Alice in Kansas City.

The sun is halfway melting into the horizon line so everything is somehow pink, orange, and turquoise. I lean against my car that is slurping gas, while I peel a large navel orange.  Said stranger asks,

“What is your name?”

“My name is Caroline.”

“Who are you named after?”

“My Father.”

“Your Father’s name is Caroline?”

“No… His name is Carlos.”

In this scenario my pump clicks. I drop the navel orange peel on the ground and then the stranger gets on a motorcycle and disappears away from the horizon. 

I am still working out the kinks of this exchange, but hope someone asks me that question soon before I forget how to respond. 

So, I am Caroline Claire and for a good portion of my life I went by the acronym C.C., however in some half baked mindset of a child I asked politely to be called Caroline instead. I had a bob haircut because my Mother said so and I was named Caroline Claire, so that all these people my senior could call me C.C. At a certain point, I did not want chin length hair and the acronym anymore. The chin length hair remained for a few years, but the rebranding of myself advanced. C.C. was in the past with the exception of a few old family friends and people like my grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. Yet, to everyone new I was Caroline. If I had to give a product review of my name Caroline, I would start with a 4.9 star rating. It looks great written out. It sounds nice. There are plenty songs that use the name. However, it has caused me to despise a certain name. Carolyn. Apologies to the afflicted and named, but the name Carolyn is an audible and visual nightmare for me. The amount of conversations regarding my name that have gone as follows are unfathomable:

“What is your name?”

“Caroline.”

“Carolyn?”

“No, Caro-Line.”

“Yeah, what I said Carolyn.”

“No. CarAH-Line, like the Neil Diamond Song.”

“What song?”

My Grandfather tends to trip over the correct twenty-two year old pronunciation of my name and call me Carolyn–which mildly annoys me and really gets to my Mother. So, I like to go by C.C. which he calls me most of the time. However, for the last twenty one days or so I have been going by C.C. For the last twenty one days or so I have been remaining in Alaska. I went North and West and as close to Russia as I will probably ever be, introducing myself as C.C.

I have realized a few things. One, being that my Mother is right a lot of the time. I am not sure if it was that for 9 months she was cognizant of me, therefore she has had a head start to my life. She thought I should be Caroline Claire, so I can go by C.C. and she thought I should have a blunt bob haircut. I wish I never wanted long blonde hair –which the closest thing I got to was long brown hair. I wish I never wanted to ditch the nickname C.C. That being said, the vain part of myself wishes to have short hair and to have only gone by C.C., yet that is not the case. In the past twenty one days or so, I have been C.C. and only tripped over introducing myself as Caroline once. Other than that, the town of Soldotna including a senator and his wife, know me as C.C. from Southern California.

When I shake hands with Alaskans and give them the basic defining information about myself, my name does not seem to matter. They ask me about California and if I am going back. As if my life and the rest of my closet do not matter and can stay there while I stay in a small town with no movie theater. Some people mention that they have visited California. They tell me they know all about the town I am from because they never visited it, but instead have gone to San Diego. Other people tell me about the expense of living in California, but back home I can get avocados and amazing tomatoes practically year round. The remaining people explain close brushes they have had with the state as if it were a celebrity. It is a story about something like a layover at LAX where they bought almonds and Sees Candy, or they have a second cousin who lives in Fresno that mountain bikes and they have never visited them.

On day twenty one with a vague idea about a possible departure back to California I spent an hour dicing ten tomatoes and seven avocados for my Grandfather’s friend Ignacio “Iggy” last name unbeknownst to me. I escaped to the non continental United States. Away from the name-calling of Caroline and questions regarding what I am doing in the next five minutes and if I will ever be an important member of society who pays taxes and a mortgage. I left behind a large amount of clothing, relationships, promises, and a routine of anxiety reducing leisure. I traded it for cooler temperatures, mosquito bites, an Aunt who is the most attractive single female in town, a Grandfather who believes dinner should be the largest meal of the day, and a river instead of an ocean.