PRINCESS WILD COW

This is a story on a variety of levels. Some will be revealed. Some will be hinted at. And, some will knock you right up aside your head.

Sarah Phoenix was not my birth name. Most recognize that. My birth name was Linda Nell ????. The ???? is meaningless because the man who was supposed to be my father was not. I had known that because of a child’s inherent ability to see things that others try to deny. It has not caused me a lot of anguish. On the bumpy road of my life, it is one of the most insignificant issues. When my mother died and I cleaned out the bottles, the pills and the needles. I found a box that was full of secrets and discovered the one thing about my birth father that I know. He was called Mac.

In the South there is a tradition of calling children, at the top of your voice, from blocks away. With the accent that was available my name could be heard echoing off the rooftops for miles. “Lee—anda Na-ill.” Yep, say it loud, say it proud and it still sounds like “Hay—ill.”

Parents name their children for a variety of reasons. I would say that the proportion of “Lindas” within a five-year period, either direction from my birth, is disproportionate for a variety of reasons. The most obvious…Linda Darnell. Now, this woman was beautiful. If I am not making this up, one of her most memorable lines in a movie occurred when she stepped from behind a bead curtain and said, “My name is Tondalayo.” As a child I could not even dream of being that beautiful and sultry. My cat’s eye glass frames, cheap Toni permanent, and general nerdy, smartass behavior precluded any similarity from being drawn.

Another reason for naming your child might take into consideration a touch of the exotic. I was born in New Mexico and “Linda” in Spanish means “beautiful.” See all of the above reasons to see why I resisted that association, also.

Most children go through periods of hating their names. Mine just lasted. And lasted. And lasted.

Now to the good part.

Approximately 25 years ago my current roommate invited me to a New Year’s Eve Party. I lived in Duluth and she lived in Two Harbors, a half hour drive up the north shore of Lake Superior. Come New Year’s Eve, I prepared to leave for the party and surprise, surprise…it’s a blizzard out there. I had not lived here long enough at that time to recognize the dangers of that; so, I took off for the party. Not much else to do in Northern Minnesota in the dead of winter.

No one else was that desperate. I was the only guest. The table full of spinach dip, cookies, pigs in a blanket, and other delectables kept us captivated. Her husband sat in the living room and tried to ignore the loud, laughing, chewing women at the dining room table. I told her of my plans to change my name. Gave her all the details.

“What are you going to change it to?”

“Sarah.”

“Sarah? Why Sarah?”

“Because in the Old Testament, she laughed in the face of god, and I think that pretty much sums me up.”

“What are you going to choose for a middle name?”

“Uh, I don’t know.”

Down comes her old “family” dictionary. Leather cover peeling off, letters worn off of the maroon dividers, and a musty smell that indicated it had seen many more years than I.

“This dictionary has a list of names in it. Let’s figure one out,” she says.

Of course, we first had to look up “Sarah” First. Very simple. “Princess.”

“PRINCESS? PRINCESS?" What the hell do you mean “Princess.”? I ain’t no goddamned princess. (The echoes of many a youthful retort of “I ain’t no goddamned okie!” reverberated in my head.) “Sarah” was on her way out the door.

By this time I had consumed a number of beverages and was well on my way to a severely impaired thinking process. We searched through lists of names looking for anything I considered appropriate until they all sounded silly, kind of like if you decide to repeat the same word over and over until it loses its meaning and accents float over all of the syllables. Kathy has a bit of a caustic sense of humor, greatly appreciated by me in anyone and says, “How about Sarah Lee…hahaha…like the desserts.”

My hips were already beginning to show the promise of their future and I thought it was pretty appropriate. After the number of beverages I had consumed by this time PooPoo CaCa would have caught my fancy.

So we looked up “Lee.” There was no “Lee.” However, there was “Leah.” Now “Leah” has that Old Testament ring to it and I asked, “What does it mean? What does it mean?”

“Weary one,” she says.

Well, that meant doodly squat to me. “Weary one? If I am weary of anything it's playing this damned Name Game.”

“Wait a minute,” she says. “There is an older translation here that says “Wild Cow.”

WILD COW! I was ecstatic. For if there was one thing I definitely was, it was “Princess Wild Cow.” That locked it in. I was on my way.

“Excuse me," I say rather regally, "may I announce; Princess Wild Cow.”

Princess Wild Cow, who rose from the ashes of destruction, was on her way to existence. It was no more that three months later while divorcing my second husband, I decided I was going to legally change my name to Sarah Leah Phoenix. After all, I was asked if I wanted to change my name back to my “Maiden” name. “Maiden Name?” They must not have known me very well. I'm not sure exactly whose last name ended up on my birth certificate, but I certainly had no loyalty to it.

I convinced the judge that the change was perfectly legal since I had no intent to defraud with the name change. That fast talking LA charm was still with then. “Well, I guess that's alright.” With that, Sarah Leah Phoenix came in to existence. Not many changed their name in those days. And now when they do it they come up with such symbolic names as River Windinthewillows. Or, Siobhan Springsfromtheearth.

Anyone who knows me well knows the story. And none of them every question the appropriateness of the name. I've been known to fulfill every subtle promise found in the name and on occasion have even been known to step into a pile of shit.

Meanwhile, I wander around. Barging through fences, electrified or not. Chewing my cud and sharing it with anyone within earshot. And, smiling in my head at the knowledge that I am truly Princess Wild Cow. And cracking up that the last words my mother ever spoke to me were, “I never had a daughter named Linda.” For once in her life, she was right.