My Name is Esther, and I am a Ginger

If you want to completely lose your faith in humanity, do a Google search for "Ginger Jokes." For even more depravity, look at the images. Some of them say "No offense intended"—as if that makes it okay. If you don't intend to offend, don't post it.

I am a redhead; aka a ginger. So are one of my brothers, one of my brothers-in-law, both of my sisters-in-law, and three of my nephews. While I was growing up, I used to say my hair was "copper-coloured." I was very literal as a child, and "red" was the colour of Ronald McDonald's hair, not mine. I never heard the word "ginger" used to describe hair until I read Harry Potter. I like it, though. It makes me think of gingerbread and Christmas. It's a warm and comforting word, with just a hint of spice. I'd like to think it suits me.

Unfortunately, I discovered soon after I read Harry Potter, there is a lot of hate for gingers. I don't know where it comes from, but a quick Google search indicates that it might be racism against Irish (even though many Scottish are redheads too). It seems the idea is that gingers have no souls. From reading fantasy and historical fiction, I was aware that in the past, some people believed that redheads were magical. Whether you thought they were evil or not depended on your view of magic, I guess. Now, I like to call myself a vampire because of my pale skin and my tendency to burn in the sun, but that doesn't mean I have no soul.

The first time I saw the picture on the right, it was before I was aware of the "gingers have no soul" thing, and I read it as "gingers can get any man because they're just that awesome." I still like that reading better than the "no soul" thing. I have met many a man who thinks redheaded women are the most beautiful of women—I married one of them.

(Grammar Templar comment: I didn't make this poster. I don't know why the comma is there. Yes, I know it shouldn't be there. Yes, it is a comma splice. Yes, it drives me crazy, too.)

Harry Potter is one of my all-time favourite book series, and I really identify with the Weasley family. I am the oldest of eight children, and I have only one sister. The Weasleys have only seven children, but if they had one more girl, they would practically be my family. Well, my sister and I are the two oldest, and Ginny is the youngest, but still. The only other difference is that we have only two gingers: me and my fourth brother. Everybody always said how lucky my parents were to get two redheads as we are so rare. The idea of a whole family of gingers is such a cool idea, but the odds against it happening in real life are astronomical.

Tell me these kids aren't adorable. I dare you.

I've heard that gingers are a dying breed, because the gene that causes red hair is recessive, so slowly but surely there are less and less redheads born and, one day, there will be no more ever again.

Then my sister married a ginger and they had two kids who are both gingers. And my third brother had a kid who's a ginger. So my family is doing our part to keep the trait going into the next generation.

Anyway, back to the Weasleys. I saw an interview with James and Oliver Phelps who play the twins Fred and George. They said when they got the roles, they went back to their school and told everyone, but no one believed them. Then, the next day, they showed up at school with their hair dyed ginger, and everyone was like, "Well, there's no way you would dye your hair ginger for any other reason!" Because, you know, no one wants to be ginger! Well, talk to my sister. She's always saying she wishes she had red

hair. Also, talk to Doctor Who. It's a running joke on the show that every time he regenerates, he wants to be ginger, but he never is, and that is very disappointing for him.

(Yes, I know they call him "The Doctor" on New Who, not "Doctor Who." I know there are many people who hate when people call him "Doctor Who." I don't care. He was Doctor Who in the credits on the original show. Yes, I know I may get some hate for this. Hey, I'm a ginger. I'm used to it.)

Another side of the whole thing is the phrase "red-headed stepchild." I did a bit of Googling on this, and it seems that it comes from the idea that if two non-gingers have a ginger child, the father assumes that his wife was unfaithful to him and the kid isn't his. "Stepchild" here is used as a euphemism for "bastard." This child then gets treated poorly, leading to the phrase meaning something like "second-class citizen." Well, my mom was brunette and my dad was blond, and he never assumed either me or my red-headed brother weren't his. While the red-headed gene is recessive, it can pop up unexpectedly. Both of my parents had uncles and other distant relatives with red hair. Both of my parents had Irish and Scottish blood in their history. My brother and I got the red hair legitimately.

I would love to have red-headed children, but I will love them just as much if they have brown, blond, or black hair. By the way, I hate blond jokes, too. I think it's just as bad to stereotype someone because of the colour of their hair as it is to stereotype them because of the colour of their skin. It's all wrong. I am proud to be a ginger.

I leave you with this picture of Molly Weasley. She is one of my favourite gingers.

What's Your Name?

I've always loved my name. I don't want to be "normal" and I'm so glad my parents gave me an uncommon name. I also think it's a beautiful-sounding name, and I love the story of Queen Esther in the Bible (I was named after her). So, I'm glad my name is Esther.

However, there are drawbacks to having an uncommon name. Most people don't know how to spell it, and some can't pronounce it. I work in a call centre and, while a few callers get it right, most have no idea what I said when I introduce myself. Surprisingly, most of those who don't hear me clearly don't ask me to repeat my name--they just call me "Astra." And that's weird, because I've never met--or heard of--anyone named Astra. It's pretty, but where are they getting it from?

I've also been called Heather, Aster, Easter, and even Erica.

And almost everyone spells it "Ester." You know, like "polyester"? (That's a chemical compound.) I told someone once my name is "Esther with an h," and they wrote "Hester." Wow. I've gotten into the habit of automatically spelling it out for people when they ask for my name.

Although I've had all these problems, when I have kids, I'm still not giving them common names. After all, my last name is Jones, and that's already common enough. I love choosing and making up names--maybe that's one of the reasons I'm a writer. I'll never have enough children to use all the names I love, so I'll have to use them for my characters.

So, what's your name? Is it common or uncommon? Do you get called other things by people who misheard you? Do you like weird names?

The Three Amigos... and Me

Although I prefer fantasy, sometimes I write a story that is more true to life. The following is based on an experience I had one summer at a camp I where I volunteered.

The Three Amigos... and Me

"Hey, guys, I have an idea," Sara proclaimed.

"What is it?" Tyler asked.

We were walking up the hill from the barn toward the dining hall for lunch. Sara, Tyler, and Lucy were, as usual, several steps ahead of me since I found it difficult to keep up.

"You know how the Three Amigos do that little dance?" Sara continued.

"Yeah!" Lucy and Tyler chorused. The three of them proceeded to demonstrate the dance, which consisted of a series of simple movements reminiscent of the Macarena, ending with a forward thrust of the hips.

I watched, bemused. Just after the four of us had been assigned to work in the barn three weeks ago, the three of them had discovered a mutual love of the Three Amigos. They were constantly singing the theme song and discussing things the three heroes had done. I was confused; I'd never heard of the Amigos before this summer, and I was still unsure who or what they were.

Giggling, Sara said, "Let's do that in front of everybody at lunch."

"Yes, let's!" Lucy agreed.

Tyler was a little less enthusiastic. "I don't think Dan would appreciate the hip thrust at the end," he warned.

Tyler was the most mature of the three amigos, a fact which surprised me. I was rather sexist, and therefore expected females to outdo males-especially when it came to maturity.

"Let's change it," Tyler suggested. "Instead of a hip thrust, let's pretend to draw a couple of six-guns." He mimed a quick draw with both hands, pointing his invisible guns at the air before him.

"Great idea," Lucy said.

"Yes, I like it," Sara agreed.

We continued up the hill while the amigos practiced their adapted dance. Their joy would have been infectious if it hadn't been so exclusive. There were only three amigos.

Like the Three Musketeers, the Three Amigos stuck together. Unlike the Three Musketeers, the Three Amigos had no room for a fourth member. While D'Artagnan was accepted by the Musketeers, I would never be an amigo.

Tears stung my eyes as I trudged behind my co-workers. I could accept that they would never be my friends, but there was more: I often found myself doing their work as well as my own.

Yesterday evening while I was unsaddling horses, I realized that Lucy, Sara, and Tyler were sitting on the haystack, talking. Unsure if they were aware that I was doing their work, I openly carried a saddle past them. They didn't react.

I had stripped almost half the horses in the barn when Monica, the Horsemanship Coordinator, arrived. Seeing her approach, the amigos quickly began to untack horses. I was so angry I could hardly breathe. "God, help me," I whispered through my tears.

Monica believed the industrious act, and the amigos continued on their merry way. Judging from their behaviour today, they felt no remorse. However, it was hard for me to be angry with them-impossible, in fact. It just wasn't in me to hold a grudge.

"Ready, guys?" Sara stood just outside of the dining hall, a questioning look on her face.

"We're ready!" Lucy and Tyler chorused.

The three amigos entered the building, singing their silly theme song. Pausing where everyone could see them, they performed their dance with a flourish. Laughter and applause rewarded them. I clapped along with the others, and then followed the amigos to the washrooms to clean away the barn dirt.

In the bathroom, Lucy said, "Esther, that was great the way you handled Dandy today. When she started bucking, I thought it was all over."

"It was scary," I admitted. "I really thought I was going to fall off."

"You did good," Sara assured me.

I shook my head in confusion. I could not understand these people I worked with. They could be so nice, yet they were often cruel. They were so talented with horses, yet they were often clueless when it came to other people's feelings.

As I had been sexist, I had also been Christocentric. I had expected Christians to be kind and caring-all the time.

Three days ago, while we were preparing to take a group of kids on a trail ride, we had been in the arena with the horses tied up along the fence. The three amigos were sitting on top of the fence when the kids arrived. I greeted the young riders, and directed them to stand next to their horses. I then began to help them mount.

"We should help," I heard Tyler say.

"Nah," Lucy replied. "Esther's got it under control."

I helped twenty campers to mount. It was exhausting.

Lucy slid off the fence nonchalantly. "Okay, kids," she called, "let's ride!" She picked out the best staff horse for herself and led the group out onto the trails.

"You can ride drag on this one," Sara told me. "Take Murphy."

Gee, thanks, I thought. Murphy was the ugliest horse in the barn and the most uncomfortable to ride. I loved horses, but I hated riding Murphy. With a sigh, I mounted and submitted to Murphy's bouncing and jostling. That was a trail ride I would love to forget.

"Hey, Esther! Sara!" Lucy called as she left the washrooms. "Let's eat!"

I followed the other girls out to the eating area. As I approached the table where my cabin was seated, I realized that there were no empty chairs. The counselor's boyfriend was sitting in my seat.

"Hi, Esther!" Nickie, my senior counselor said. "I invited Luke to sit with me today. I hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind," I lied. I loved sitting with the kids at meals; it wasn't as if I had any time to spend with them otherwise.

As I walked across the room, I wondered, Why wasn't Luke sitting with his cabin? Then I saw that Luke's assistant was supervising their campers, a job that wasn't his responsibility since he wasn't the senior counselor. He looked exhausted and stressed from his busy morning teaching archery. The eleven campers currently besieging him with demands for more pizza buns and Kool-Aid were adding to his mental condition. He didn't have time for luxuries like lunch dates.

I found an empty seat at a staff table. I was getting sick and tired of the "fun" of summer camp. I couldn't wait to go home.

A Girl Who Reads

Date A Girl Who Reads
I love this piece; it's one of those things I wish I'd written.

"Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book."


And while she sometimes might ignore you in favour of her current read, understand that it's nothing personal; she's in the middle of a very intense passage, and she'll return to you once the characters have sorted out their problems and she finds "a good place to stop."
A girl who reads is a girl who knows how to love with all her heart and soul. She believes in true love and happy endings. She will love you forever.

Role of a Lifetime

I wrote this just after breaking up with my first boyfriend, who dreamed of someday being a film director.

Role of a Lifetime

You picked me, 'cause you liked my looks,

To be the leading lady in the movie of your life.

You were the director, and you wanted me to be your perfect star.

There was no audition that I knew of, so I thought you wanted me for me;

But I'm not an actress

And I couldn't play the part.