This translation has been automatically generated and has not been verified for accuracy.First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines atI lobbed a frown at my best friend and threaded another daisy into a fast-lengthening chain. A stitch tightened between my ribs.Midsummer in the suburbs of Calgary, and a hot sun cooked the trampoline mat beneath our bellies.
Then there was the question of what I would do for work when I grew up; the professions of teacher and veterinarian, I reasoned, were out. Anything with a prefix, really. Paging Dr. Dick? As if! And how could I ever wear that name on the back of a Team Canada jersey? Amid the sneering and the heckling, I had also gained a quartet of good friends who liked me well enough to brave the storm of associating with a Dick. We picked crab apples in the park. We raced across monkey-bars. We choreographed dance routines to Spice Girls hits. They didn’t seem to care about my name; and so I cared a little less, too.Junior high marked a significant turning point in my journey as a Dick. I discovered the famous Dicks: Andy and Philip K.
It was then I uncovered a simple truth: Dicks are great people. Intelligence, wit, resolve… we’ve got it all! Who could be more apt to empathize, to problem-solve, to persevere in the face of an unforgiving world, than a Dick? Eighteen years old, tough as nails and at last, victorious, I walked the stage at my Grade 12 graduation to cheerful choruses of “Yeah, Dicker!” and vowed never to apologize for my name again.
Translated to French it’s Trudeau.
Or Drumpf. That’s why The Donald’s father changed the family name to Trump.
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