Cakey

Suddenly, I don't know what's going to happen with my job. Am I going to lose it soon? I'm terrified. BUt I actually wanted to write for a different reason.

Post-Oscar curiosity set in and I got 'The Help' on Netflix. Not what I expected but I got the jist of it from youtube clips much better. I don;t watch much if any TV anymore so billboards are pretty much my only was of determining what a movie is about. Anyway, throughout the story, the Maid's are terrified of letting anyone know that they wre the one's who were being interviewed for the book. BUt at the end, the community was so proud they signed a copy. I suddenly had the thought that a person's name is very precious. In the book/movie/play 1776 the head of the congress was the first to sign his name to the declaration of independence. They then joked about how Fat George might hand them all for this, but John Handcocks name was already on it- BIG AND BOLD. His name that he wrote with his hand. It touched me that the people would write in their own names- take ownership of what was in it.

If I ever taught a child's class, I would teach them that concept. That you should never forget to put your name on your paper's because that was something to take ownership of. To be proud of. That everything you ever write your name on, or sign, should be something you can proudly declaire is your own work.

I'm not perfect of course. I only wish I could be proud of or feel like I owned everything I've ever signed. It's a sin to cheat, but I'm sure I've done it. No different than anyone else of course- in one way or another.

When I was in highschool going to early morning seminary (I was barely awake most days) I heard a story about someone's interpretation of heaven. They said they were in a room full of little fileing cabniates like the dewey decimal cards they used to have. And when you pulled one out, there would be acts written on the cards lined up inside. A drawer for people you've introduced to the gosple, a drawer for people you've kissed, A drawer for however many times you lied or stolen in life. And then the interpretation said that Christ came and signed each and every card- his name under the deeds you did. And some of those cards were shameful.

Every since then, I've thought about that. And now I think about it with a little more depth, imagining what a signature means .

But more, what a name means. that it is yours. I learned in my family history class that in The Church, when we do baptisms on behalf of the dead, we absolutely must have the right information. The name and birthdate at least. When you are baptizing a person in the flesh who is alive, it's not required they pronounce it correctly. My father tells me this is because when a person has a body, then there is a direct association with the person receiving the blessings. But with a person who is passed on, when we act in their place, then the name become important. Otherwise we could just baptise Joe Andersen over and over and let that freebie go to whomever would accept it. But we don't do it wily-nilly. Instead we have done great research to make sure no one is forgotten. That all who would accept it can have the ability to.

I know that people like Leonard would think I'm brainwashed. But when I say it like this and string these memories together, it really feels right. I feel at peace when I think about these things. I just don't get this feeling all the time. And if you know me, I'm prone to disbelieving my own feelings. I wouldn't even trust myself to say if I'm hungry or tired or sick or lonely. I doubt myself constantly. But this is something I just don't doubt. There isn't any need to.

Not long ago, however I was driving and the most insane thoughts came to my mind and I was deathly afraid of myself. I wondered who had taken over my brain to put such things into my head and then make me consider them. Dangerous and dark things- things that I know to be insane. As twisted as wondering why I should love my family, or protect my own well being. Why should I eat? Why should I be kind? Do I even know my Father? How can I know anyone? These are secret things, although I won't tell everything I thought. And it all came in a rush to me like an internal tsunami. I got over it though and hed to remind myself what I already knew. For one thing that I existed. I'm sorry, I know to anyone who has never had these thoughts it sounds like I need serious therapy. I might, but not for this. It was just a glitch in the matrix and before It happened, I myself would have thought it was ludicrous. But try not to judge me here, I'm trying to make a point.

That when we try to remind ourselves of who we are, we say our names. If I remain a good person and do my best, I may yet be blessed with the chance to change my last name. But I know I'll always be Casey Jillaine. Casey because it's neither feminine nor masculine- a nothing name, like my mother wanted. And Jillaine- my mother's best and perhaps only female friend. She was bright and pretty, I only met my namesake once, accidentaly in a gas station drugstore. Only a brief moment as I think my mom and she aren't close anymore.

Professor Rush called me "kiddo". My Dad calls me "Casey Jill". My Big brother calls me "Cakey".

And that's what I think about during the last 5 minutes of "The Help".