ryan b dot
ryanb.
I thought it was about time that I explained why my blog is titled 'ryan b dot' (yes, you say the dot, it's not a typo!)
The appearance of the dot, and for that matter my last initial b made it's debut way back in my pre-kindergarten class. Although I attend an all-girls school, my early years were shared with boys (gasp, ikr)!
My parents choose the name Ryan for me, not because they thought they were having a boy, but because they did not want me treated like a girl. Growing up in the stereotypical 1970's my parents did not have many opportunities. My mother left home at a young age, worked for a few years, and put herself through college–although her story really isn't all that straightforward. My father joined the Marines a few days after his high school graduation. They met when they were 17. They are still together. Back to the story. My parents did not want me to be judged by anything other than my merits. My mother spoke from experience when she stated that there were many job interviews she did not get because her resume gave her gender away. This would not be the case for me, she stated, at least I would get the interview. My father insisted he chose the name Ryan because it was 'a good Irish name' that did not end in 'ie or 'y.
It was easy to spell, that's for sure, just four little letters which I had mastered way before preschool. Anastasia would be tough, as would be Genevieve and Gabriella, I had it made–or so I thought. It was a great first day of preschool, complete with a sand table, play dough and a humungous fish tank for our endless enjoyment. Snacks early on, moms departing, tears shed, the day seemed to be proceeding in typical preschool fashion until circle time. That's when I met him–Ryan.
THERE WAS A BOY IN MY CLASS NAMED RYAN! HELP!!!! SEND HELP!!!! FAST!!!!!!
How could this be? Life was not fair! WHY was he not as annoyed about this as I was? I had strange flashbacks of Junie B. Jones... how would she handle a crisis like this?
I cried all night long, I deliberated a plan. I thought about changing the spelling of my name to Ryanne, but knew I was setting myself up for disaster as I did not want to be known as a Ry-Anne, but rather a Ryan. Going by my middle name was out of the question as there was already a Nicole in the class, but at least she was a GIRL! My only solution, the only recourse I had was to pull out the trusty 'b.' From that moment on, every piece of art, every supply in my cubby, my boots, my crayons, my identity became adorned with the b. and that's the true story of my identity. Ryan b dot
I thought it was about time that I explained why my blog is titled 'ryan b dot' (yes, you say the dot, it's not a typo!)
The appearance of the dot, and for that matter my last initial b made it's debut way back in my pre-kindergarten class. Although I attend an all-girls school, my early years were shared with boys (gasp, ikr)!
My parents choose the name Ryan for me, not because they thought they were having a boy, but because they did not want me treated like a girl. Growing up in the stereotypical 1970's my parents did not have many opportunities. My mother left home at a young age, worked for a few years, and put herself through college–although her story really isn't all that straightforward. My father joined the Marines a few days after his high school graduation. They met when they were 17. They are still together. Back to the story. My parents did not want me to be judged by anything other than my merits. My mother spoke from experience when she stated that there were many job interviews she did not get because her resume gave her gender away. This would not be the case for me, she stated, at least I would get the interview. My father insisted he chose the name Ryan because it was 'a good Irish name' that did not end in 'ie or 'y.
It was easy to spell, that's for sure, just four little letters which I had mastered way before preschool. Anastasia would be tough, as would be Genevieve and Gabriella, I had it made–or so I thought. It was a great first day of preschool, complete with a sand table, play dough and a humungous fish tank for our endless enjoyment. Snacks early on, moms departing, tears shed, the day seemed to be proceeding in typical preschool fashion until circle time. That's when I met him–Ryan.
THERE WAS A BOY IN MY CLASS NAMED RYAN! HELP!!!! SEND HELP!!!! FAST!!!!!!
How could this be? Life was not fair! WHY was he not as annoyed about this as I was? I had strange flashbacks of Junie B. Jones... how would she handle a crisis like this?
I cried all night long, I deliberated a plan. I thought about changing the spelling of my name to Ryanne, but knew I was setting myself up for disaster as I did not want to be known as a Ry-Anne, but rather a Ryan. Going by my middle name was out of the question as there was already a Nicole in the class, but at least she was a GIRL! My only solution, the only recourse I had was to pull out the trusty 'b.' From that moment on, every piece of art, every supply in my cubby, my boots, my crayons, my identity became adorned with the b. and that's the true story of my identity. Ryan b dot
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