Evil Girl Scouts Stole my Diary

(Last Updated On: May 23, 2012)

I’m frequently told that I am aloof.  A little unapproachable.

I believe this stems from the spelling of my name. Ciaran. People are afraid to approach me and get it wrong.

“How do you say it?  Is it See Air AN? Keeran? Karen? See air ah?”

When someone gets it right and calls me “Sharon” upon first meeting me, I am shaken. What powers do they have? How could they possibly have known?

No, it’s not Irish, Gaelic or Italian.

After almost three decades of this, my elevator pitch for the story of my name is perfected. My answers are automatic. When asked about the origin of my name, I shrug. I tell people I have creative parents ( that’s actually true) and that they argued over my name (also true). I tell them it’s like “Marcia” where the cia is pronounced “sha”. Then I change the subject. If pressed, I’ll lie. It’s easier to shorten the conversation.

The truth is far more complicated. I was born Sharon, and changed my name in middle school. I was deeply unhappy at the time, both with myself and with the world.

Girl Scouts stole my diary.

It happened in 6th grade. My mother, possibly the least Girl Scout-y troop leader ever,  hosted a meeting with the other troop leaders to discuss merit badges and craft projects. I was away at Hebrew School. The daughter’s of the other troop leaders were present.

“Go ahead and watch TV in Sharon’s room,” my mother told them.

What they discovered in my room was far more exciting than Gilligan’s Island re-runs.

I was a writer. Possibly the most unbridled writer I will ever be. I had no concept of audience or the future. No filter. Words flowed from my mind onto the page with equal doses of conviction and fickleness.

In my diary I experimented with words I was hearing for the first time, words I wanted to understand but really didn’t. Dirty words, prompted things like a list of boys I might “fuck”. I tried big words on for size too – shooting razor tipped arrows like “narcissist” and “egomaniac” at my less innocent peers. I’m pretty sure I called my gym teacher an asshole. At least, I hope I did. My musings were not limited to my peers. The staff was fair game too. And so I wrote about which teachers were my favorite (not mine) and which ones were in purgatory, waiting for the moment they could escape to the Sizzler buffet.

No one was spared.

My diary was juicy. It was “The Help” of  Moss Elementary School.

(to be continued)

Read more about my decision to change my name, “The Name Changer”