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“The writer/poet knows that names confer magic. Or fail to confer magic.”
Joyce Carol Oates
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I didn’t start using the name conveyed to me by marriage until five years later.
I wanted to move, I wanted to escape, I had to get out of the place my daughter died. I couldn’t be in that place where I had committed the ultimate, biggest failure of my life. Anything, anything to release me, even if that meant giving up my name so that we could get into a house, this house I still sit in twenty-six years later – the house that has become my only constant.
I was Julie Jordan. Sung to, admonished, not wanted by humanity. Birth control failure – I discovered at 13.
A name. I had a name.
Julie Ann Jordan. Claimed kin to Julie Ann Drews.
Quirky, earnest, optimistic.
Loved easily and often until looks mattered and influence mattered and money mattered.
I am distracted by a mourning dove and remember the hummingbird who paid a visit a moment ago.
My name. Magic.
It happened when I added Scott to Jordan.
I took Jordan out of the hope chest at the end of my bed. I fluffed it up and proclaimed “Julie Jordan Scott” (I worked for the county then, Susan Gill helped me. She never changed her name I don’t think she has yet, either or maybe who knows.)
Julie Jordan Scott.
My made up magical claimed I like it name.
Merges me with my children and my history. Never say Scott without Jordan please.
Reclaimed with twenty-eight seconds to go.
Remembering characters I’ve played. Grandma Betty, Jack’s Mom, Woman. Eunice, Mama, Present.