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
