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About The daily Nebraskan. ([Lincoln, Neb.) 1901-current | View Entire Issue (April 2, 1993)
Detested name has its benefits All my life, I’ve hated intro ductions. “My name is Rainbow. RAINBOW. R-A-I-N ... yeah, just like in the sky.” The first time I tell people my name, they almost always assume they’ve misunderstood me. “What?” they say, feigning a sudden hearing loss, “I thought you said Rainbow.” Their next question is always, “Is that your real name?” After I’ve produced my birth cer tificate and sworn affidavits from each of 10 nearest family members, three former employers and my second grade teacher, their next question without a doubt will be, “So were your parents, like, flower children?” And, I say... well, I usually don’t say anything but, I think, “Leave me alone. What’s your name? Christi? Were your parents pencil-necked geeks?” I don’t know why it bothers me when people call my parents “old hippies.” After all, they did name me after a Jimi Hendrix song. I think, deep inside, I’ve never made peace with my weird name. I’ve never just said, “Yes, you may be a little strange, but you’re my namcand I’m proud of you. I love you.” I may not ever love my «amc, but I like it a lot better than I used to. From ages 5 to 16,1 despised my name. I hated it. It was a badge of despair I was forced to carry with me each day of my life. My very own scarlet letter. Yes, it started back in kindergar ten. My fellow 5-year-old classmates were overjoyed to have me in their class. My name was instant entertain ment. “Rain-Blow,” they shouted, “Sunshine,” “Rainbow Brite,” “Cloudhead.” Their cruelty knew no limits. Thanks to my last name, they could even alliterate: “Rambo Raoul, Rambo Raoul.” I dreamed of the day when the world of personalized pencils, stickers and placemats would suddenly open for me. Substitute teachers were almost as bad. They’d fly through the class ros ter without a pause, through the As and the' Gs and the Ms. And then they’d stop, looking a little confused, a little upset. They’d squint down at the paper, hoping my name would look more like Cathy or Jennifer if the light hit it just right. After a long day of elementary school persecution, I’d collapse teary eyed before my mother’s feet, moan ing, “How could you do this to me, your own daughter, your firstborn?” She’d walk past me, assuring me that I could change my name as soon as I turned 18. I became obsessed with changing my name to something normal. I made lists of posable future names. For years Sara topped the list, although I never decided if I preferred it with or without the ‘h.’ I dreamed of the day when the world of personalized pencils, stick ers and placemats would suddenly open for me. The teasing slowed after junior high, although I’ve been awakened more than once this semester at 2 a.m. to assure rogue telephone friends that I don’t know where the pot of gold is. And people still think my name is an excuse for rudeness. This sum mer, I correctly identified Paul Tsongas’ voice for a call-in radio contest. When I told the DJ my name, he promptly asked me if my parents did drugs. I know that if I would have said Kim or Lisa, he would never have asked. These days I almost like Rainbow. At least people remember my name. At least, they remember that it’s weird, which is better than nothing, I guess. Who cares if I can’t find a mug with my name on it? I have my own brand of bread, canned goods and cheap cigarettes. Andevery great rock act has sung about rainbows: Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones and Kermit the Frog. If I had a normal name, I might meet other people with it as well. That would really bother me. It would be like showing up at the prom and see ing 10 other people wearing my dress. Unless I start hanging out with River Phoenix’s little sister, I prob ably won’t meet many Rainbows. So I’ll stick with my name. I don’t get called Ram bo much anymore and, besides, I have a much bigger prob lem to tackle: my last name, Rowell. How can I succeed in life with a surname that rhymes with bowel? Until I solve that problem, I’ll learn to take pride in Rainbow, and I’ll avoid men with the last name Trout. RoweU is a sophomore news-editorial major and a Daily Nebraskan columnist. hitch* Tiwurwn1 No answer in the White House White House officials an nounced the other day that Slick Willy Clinton wouldn’t be able to be a TV barfly, although they lefta few, untold possi bilities open. The producers of the NBC sitcom “Cheers” wanted the new president to pull up a stool beside or Norm and Cliffy for the godawfullylong-run ning series’ final episode, set to air in May. The snag was that Billy would have to jet out to the studios this week, and—wouldn’t ya know it—sched uling some pesky meeting with whats his-face Yeltsin got in the way. Why can’t we just ignore these bothersome tinhorn foreign leaders? Let ’em rot, I say. This is prime time we’re talking about here. What TV top-rated shows has Mr. High-and Mighty Yeltsin ever been asked to slam drinks in? Here’s your answer, smarty-pants: none. But while Clinton won’t be able to stop in the bar personally, his press secretary. Dee Dee Myers, told re porters she thought “there may be ways” the president could still be a part of the show. She didn’t expand on exactly how. Perhaps some or Clinton’s extra poli tician-brand hair will be used to cover bald Ted Danson’s scalp. But as a journalist, I don’t like to make offhand remarks that may or may not be true, such as, “I have strong evidence Clinton is having an affair with Woody Harrclson.” No, I went straight to the Supreme Source/God of the Land: The White House Operator. White House Operators are a little more tricky than your average gar den-variety University Operator. There is a certain finesse to obtaining the information you want from a big time operator. For instance, you must yell a lot and make a lot of baseless threats. - - After that part of my conversation I smelled a cover up. But she put me on hold before I could ask a stinging follow-up • question, such as “What?" was over and I calmed down, she finally answered the phone. I asked her what the mysterious way was that Meyers had in mind to allow Clinton to still be a part of “Cheers.” “I’m sorry, I cannot comment on that Are you with the press?” I smelled a cover-up. But she pul me on hold before I could ask a sling ing follow-up question, such as “What?” Some lime later, as the Dailv Nebraskan’s phone bill crept upward, a lady who called herself “Lee Ason” or something from some other dumb department told me she didn’t “know anything about it.” She transferred me back to the main operator, who gave me the num ber for the communications depart ment. “Ring,” tbe phone whispered in my ear. I whispered back. Eventually, someone answered, interrupting me. The answer to my vexing question proved quite elusive. The red tape involved with the White House phone system is disturbing. It’s even more disturbing if you write the word “dis turbing” in quotation marks: “dis turbing.” Half a dozen people at various offices such as “communications,” “press secretary,” and “Josh Silverman”agreed that, basically, they don't know anything. “Right now there’s just rumors going around.” “We don’t have any information about that.” “1 have no idea.” “I don’t know, I haven’t seen ‘The Crying Game.’”“The answer is, ‘ We don *t have the answer.’”“Let me ask my supervisor.” Why did the producers of Cheers ever think they might get this guy Clinton? It’s such a hassle to find a straight answer in that White House bureaucracy beehive. “Cheers” isn’t even that great of a show — at least, no “Baltlestar Galactica” or anything. I had to watch “Cheers” last week in beautiful Las Vegas during Spring Break. We slopped in Las Cheeselown for a couple of days to stay with a friend’s sister. One evening we sat down to watch “The Simpsons," but all our host would allow on her TV was “Cheers.” This anecdote goes to show how backward Las Vegas really is; but then, a person can’texpcct rrtuch from the thrall capital of the high desert. “Cheers” is like one of those cute little dogs you try so hard to leave out in the country. “Go on, mutt,” you say, but then they always find their way home with tom-up paws and cats for friends, even though the nuclear test range outside of Las Vegas is months away from Lincoln by dogtrot. Dogs watch loo many Disney movies. I don’t suppose I really care if Clinton pats Norm on the back or has some lame conversation with Sammy. Phelps is a junior news-editorial major, the Daily Nebraskan managing editor and a columnist. positions include: managing editor, associate news editor, sports editor, wire editor, senior reporters, copy desk chief, night news editor, photo chief, assistant photo chief, art director, cartoonist, supplements editor, Sower editor and columnist. If your are interested, come on down to the DN office in the basement of Nebraska Union, pick up an application and sign up for an interview. UNL does not discriminate its academic, admissions or employment programs and abides by aM federal regulations pertaining to same. Why Can't Sharon Kowalski Come Home? Karen Thompson, a nationally recognized disability rights activist will present the story of ncrself and her lover Sharon, who was forced to regain basic life skills after being struck by a drunk driver. All people interested in the important victory her experience provides for those witn disabilities arc encouraged to attend. Join us for the following: •Workshop on Combatting Able-ism.l-4pm (Contact the Women's Center to register) •Lecture: Karen tells her story. $3 for non-UNL students. 7-9pm, Nebraska Union. April 3, 1993 For more info, contact the Women’s Center at 472-2597 Rise Before The Fall This Summer With#r C ‘ghton University • Creighton University ranked number one for academic reputation among Midwestern Colleges and Universities - U.S. News and World Report, September 1992. Summers at Creighton • Five sessions to choose from • Day & evening classes • More than 200 courses • Small classes • Reduced tuition Call or write today for more information and your copy of the Summer Sessions *93 Bulletin (402) 280-2843 or toll tee 1-800-637-4279 CREIGHTON UNIVERSITY 2500 California Plaza •Omaha, NE 68178