2007-10-03
When we named the dog, we were living in Shrewsbury, MO. Shrewsbury was a lovely town. I'm glad I lived there. The people were fantastic (except the creep who lived across the street, but never mind him).
But, well, I'm not saying there's a lack of diversity in Shrewsbury, but let's just say that if they brought back the Jim Crow laws, Shrewsbury would have a "White" water fountain and a "Whiter" water fountain.
Our new neighborhood, on the other hand, has a different demographic mix altogether. Well, one morning when I was walking the dog, the little guy was being uncooperative. I said, "Toby, let's get moving here!", right as one of my new neighors was walking by. One of the "diverse" ones, to use the euphemism. He gave me something of a disgusted look, and asked incredulously, "You named your dog Toby?"
I didn't think too much about it, and maybe I was being paranoid, but I seemed to be getting weird looks about the dog's name. Then when I was talking to my buddy Wayne about coming by the house for the wedding, he mentioned that when he would be refusing, out of principle, to refer to my dog by his slave name.
And I had one of those realizations that almost knocked me over. I remembered that scene from Roots. The scene below, to be specific.
(Note: this scene is very hard to take. Oh, and you might have to log in to see it, but please do it.)
So, for all anyone in the neighborhood knows, I've named my dog after the symbol of Kunta Kinte surrendering his dignity, the sign that The Man had finally beaten him.
Let it suffice to say, that's not the case. We just named him Toby because he looks like a Toby to us. And the name's stuck. So about all I can think is to just not announce his name loudly in public.
Funny how life works, isn't it?
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