What’s in a name?

by RAF KATIGBAK

Thank God nobody listened to me when I was 13. In fact, thank God nobody listens to 13-year-olds at all. Thirteen-year-olds are know-it-all jerks. At least, I was. I thought I knew exactly what was wrong with the world and exactly how to fix it. Like all 13-year-olds, I was an idiot.

I also thought I knew exactly what was wrong with my life and how to fix that too. I knew the reason that I was not popular and had a deathly fear of social interaction wasn’t because I was a skinny runt with bad skin and a voice that sounded like Steve Erkel with a cold. My glaring unpopularity and social awkwardness couldn’t have been attributed to my penchant for bolo ties, purple lace-up pirate shirts, tapered acid washed jeans and spiked cowboy boots. It was because of my name: Rafael Katigbak.

Of course, back then, kids would call me Raffy. What kind of name is that? I’ll tell you what kind of name: It’s a gay man’s name (at 13, gay=bad). “Raffy” isn’t the kind of name that gets asked to smoke up in the woods behind the school with the cool burn-outs, or the kind of name that drags Kathy St-Jerome under the cafeteria stairs during the dance to possibly move to second base after 15 minutes of “banding” (i.e. the act of placing one’s index finger between a girl’s panty and waist and riding the waistband back and forth). It is not the name of a cool, mysterious, unpredictable rebel guy.

“Raffy” is the name of the guy who enrolls in chess club, who spends recess challenging friends to recall the theme song to every popular show of the time; “Raffy” is the name of the kid who, when girls would talk to him, would get red and run to the washroom nauseous (check, check and check). “Raffy” is the name of the “global troubadour” responsible for the hits “Bananaphone” and “Baby Beluga.”

“Why couldn’t I have a more normal, biblical-sounding name like John or Matthew?” I thought, “Why couldn’t I have a name like my friend Trevor Ralph. His full name was made up of TWO normal-sounding first names. Couldn’t he just give me one?” I figured if I could just change my name, then suddenly people wouldn’t give me wedgies in the hallways, secretly pour orange juice into my milk when I turned at the lunch counter and that every compliment given to me would no longer be thinly veiled sarcasm.

I knew that if I wanted to make something of myself, I needed to change my name.

Then came December 14, 1987 the beginning of a dark time for my naming anxiety. It was the day that the “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” began their run on North American television. As you probably know, Rafael was one of the four main characters (he was the cool but crude one). His weapons were even cool. He didn’t have samurai swords like real ninjas, or even nunchucks like Bruce Lee. He had sai, which had no blade and were more useful for poking. In effect, my namesake defended himself with two small, three-pronged rotisserie skewers.

From that day on, I was no longer a human being in the eyes of my peers, but rather a reptile that lived in the sewers and was trained in the art of ninjitsu by a mutant rat. Once the show began its rise into pop culture, I knew it was over for me. I could forget about ever having friends who were not hyper-myopic, getting invited to cool parties or ever kissing a girl. I might as well have worn a day-glo t-shirt that said “Wedgie Me” every day to school.

In hindsight, it was never as bad as I thought it would be. The Ninja Turtle thing got old so fast that if kids even referenced it, they were obviously uncool. Then one night, at a school dance, I somehow found myself standing awkwardly with Kathy St-Jerome. She asked me what kind of name Katigbak was. “Why?” I asked flushed with paranoia, braced for the taunting I was sure was coming. “I dunno,” she responded nonchalantly, “it’s kinda cool.” It’s weird how in that instant those three words suddenly wiped out years of trauma and anxiety. My name is kinda cool. I am kinda cool. It’s exotic, dare I say, mysterious. Awesome. Later that night Kathy St Jerome and I totally made out. It ruled; I think I even banded her.

Riff-Raff@sympatico.ca