I like you, Blythe

Blogging | November 11, 2009

For reasons that will soon become obvious, it is impossible for me to say with any certainty how the situation unfolded.

However, based on the information available, I believe the following to be fair and, at least, reasonably accurate.

It was February, 1981.

Kathy was propped up on several pillows, in bed, in the sleepy town of Mount Coolum.

She was six months pregnant with her second baby.

The ceiling fan was slowly whirring above the bed.

The fan was undoubtedly doing little to cool Kathy's forehead in the heat of a blistering Australian summer.

Kathy's first baby, Little Stevie, was momentarily subdued in his cot.

He was a difficult child, who rarely slept ,and regularly made a sound like cats fighting when he cried.

With all things considered, it is fair to assume Kathy was irritable, hot, and exhausted, when she called out to Big Steve (her husband) on this particular February day in 1981.

"Steve," she would have said, her voice testy.

"What do you think of the name 'Blythe'?"

Now, Big Steve was a conventional kind of bloke.

He was the kind of bloke who chose to name his son after himself.

He was the kind of bloke who had been pushing for the name 'Susan', for his unborn baby.

He was not the kind of bloke who agreed to a name that had never been uttered by the locals at the Coolum servo, or at the Mount Coolum corner store.

Steve would have thought about 'Blythe' for a moment.

He would have worried what the neighbours would think.

He knew the murmurs that would filter around town.

"Bloody strange name for a kid," Bob at the Coolum servo would have muttered with a shake of his head.

"I don't know what those Seinors were thinking," Jean at the Mount Coolum store would have whispered.

But Big Steve was smart enough to recognise the tone in his wife's voice.

"Blythe," he would have repeated, slowly.

"Blythe Seinor. It has a nice ring to it".

And, just like that, the decision would have been made.

Little did Kathy or Big Steve know the mistake they had just made.

Because that unborn baby was destined to be one of the shyest children to ever walk through the gates of Coolum Primary School.

Obviously, that unborn baby, was me.

And the name Kathy and Big Steve bestowed upon me, gave me no end of grief in the 1980s.

I was so painfully, heartbreakingly shy, that I could barely make the 'B" sound, the "L" sound, or any of the other sounds come out of my mouth when I was asked for my name.

I can still remember standing in line as a six-year old, waiting to have my name ticked off a form.

As I shuffled toward the front of the line, the sound of my name circled around and around in my head.

"Blythe, Blythe, Blythe... I think I can, I know I can... Blythe, Blythe, Blythe... I think I can, I know I can".

All too quickly I was at the front of the line with an expectant teacher looking down at me.

"What's your name sweetie?" the teacher asked.

My name stuck in my throat. I tried desperately to cough it out.

"Was it Blee? Bli? Bleth? What's your name, sweetie?" the teacher asked again.

"Can anyone tell me this girl''s name?"

I cursed that name.

I desperately wanted to be a Sophie, or a Renee or a Kate or a Sarah, like all the other kids at school.

I wanted a name the substitute teachers could pronounce.

A name the other kids had heard of before.

When I first arrived in Korea two months ago, I recalled what it felt like to be that six-year old girl standing in line.

Once again, I was overwhelmed with shyness at the mere thought of having to pronounce my name.

In Australia my name might have been difficult, but in Korea, Blythe is completely unheard of.

The Korean language has no distinct "L" sound, no "Y" sound and no "TH" sound.

This left me with just a B.

After a couple of shaky introductions at my school, I decided to drop the ''lythe' altogether and just go with my first initial.

The adults called me B and the students called me Miss B.

It seemed like the perfect situation.

Maybe I could finally say goodbye to Blythe altogether, and start my new life, in my new country with just one letter.

After a few weeks though, a problem began to emerge.

I missed Blythe.

I realised I didn't stumble and blush my way through all those primary school years, just to turn my back on a name that had always been there for me.

So I began to suggest that teachers at school should call me Blythe.

I show them how to make the sounds with their mouths.

"Blllllllyyyyyythhhhe".

Even some of the students call me Blythe, now.

I've noticed their pronunciation of some other English words, like 'life', has improved as a result.

Finally, I can say it.

I like you, Blythe.

I think Kathy would be proud.