“Is your mom a streetwalker?”
“Is your sister a promiscuous girl?”
“Does your grandmother sell her body?”
“Are you a gigolo?”
These were just a few of the creative jabs I endured while growing up. It’s easy to guess, from the underlying meaning of those comments, that my last name had a rather unfortunate connotation. Indeed, it did.
My surname until I was 25 was “Rider,” which, in slang terms, refers to someone involved in sexual transactions. I learned through my teenage research that the name has Anglo-Saxon roots, originally linked to agricultural workers using a specific type of hook for harvesting. However, the colloquial meaning of “rider” didn’t gain popularity until much later, particularly after a famous book in the 1970s.
This meant that my father, who bestowed this legacy upon me, didn’t face any teasing in his youth. Back then, “Rider” was simply an uncommon last name. When my sister and I reached our teen years and expressed a desire to change it, he simply couldn’t understand. To him, changing our last name was out of the question.
Middle school was where the teasing really ramped up. Our classmates caught on to what “Rider” meant, and that was the moment when their cruelty peaked. My sister, who was confident and attractive, managed to rise above it all (perhaps comforted by the thought of acquiring a new name through marriage). As for me, a chubby bookworm, my choices were to either endure the ridicule silently or develop a quick wit to deflect it.
“Is your mom a streetwalker?” I’d retort, “Yeah, but judging by your shoes, you can’t afford her services.”
“Is your sister promiscuous?” I’d reply, “Sorry, she doesn’t cater to your prepubescent needs.”
“Does your grandmother sell her body?” I’d shoot back, “Considering a career change? I suggest a new wardrobe.”
“Are you a gigolo?” I’d joke, “Only with your mom, but only in your dreams.”
Admittedly, those comebacks weren’t Oscar-worthy, but they were better than remaining silent. I quickly learned that if I didn’t respond, the mockery would never cease. The type of person who openly mocks a last name often lacks a rich vocabulary or any form of sophisticated thought.
Picture this: I’m sitting at my tiny desk in a public school in Mississippi, trying to focus on my classmates and gather my materials. Suddenly, the air shifts as a new teacher enters the room.
“Ms. Davis is out sick today. I’m Ms. Johnson. Let’s take roll.”
As she reads through the names, time seems to freeze when she reaches mine. “Rider…” The word echoes in the classroom, and all chatter stops. My face feels like it’s on fire.
Everyone in the room knows my last name, but hearing it spoken out loud is a different experience entirely. It’s as if I’m being bombarded with invisible spitballs. This scene unfolded regularly throughout my middle school years, leaving me with memories tainted by embarrassment and anxiety.
It wasn’t until later that I discovered my mother, who had a far more dignified last name, had once threatened my father with divorce over the surname issue. She recognized its impact on us. The only person who truly understood was my friend Max, who also had the unfortunate last name “Smelly.” We eventually both changed our names in our twenties.
Do I regret having an awkward last name? Not really. If I had been born Jake Johnson, I might have turned out more confident but ultimately less interesting. I’ve come to appreciate my quirks. I just take comfort in knowing that my future children will never have to deal with the same emotional baggage. Given the genetic quirks they’ll inherit from me, like a penchant for cavities, a mundane last name is the least I can do.
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In summary, although my last name brought many challenges growing up, it also shaped who I am today. I can only hope my future children will have a smoother experience.