Mum's the Word

I remember the rainy fall nights, curled up with my mother and my favorite stuffed animal, along with the plethora of books beside my bed that my mother would pick from. The one book that always stuck out in the pile had a bright bumble bee yellow spine and it soon became one of my most memorable – Chrysanthemum, by Kevin Henkes.

I was no more than a few years old and just starting pre-school when my mother had brought home a new book to help me fall asleep while the thunder hooted and hollered during the lightening rodeo. While I had blossomed and made friends as fast as a mouse trap could snap in my first few days, I couldn’t shake the few insecurities the little scrunchie, pig-tailed me started to grow. Like every other night, she would slowly scooch me over to one side of the bed and made sure I was snuggled in before she would sit beside me. She pulled the new book right from her oversized purse and thumbed through the pages, letting my saucer eyes absorb every inch of the vibrant pages. One thing stood out immediately – there was no way I could read any of the words. My mother passed the book to me and would softly encourage me to mumble through the words to sound them out, to no avail. Frustrated, I pushed the book back towards her as I often did when I had trouble with other books.

Like it was nothing, my mother would let the words roll from her tongue to the grooves and tunnels within my ears, carrying with them the sprouts of self-confidence and encouragement.

You see, Chrysanthemum revolves around the story of a young mouse by the name of Chrysanthemum who loved her name until she started her first week of school. The little girl-mouse was often faced with being told her name was “too long” or “too something else”. She was teased about her name not fitting on her name tag or for the fact she was named after a flower. While Chrysanthemum’s parents would often comfort her every day after school by reaffirming that her name was special and that she was truly loved, the next day would be more of the same – more bullying and more teasing. It wasn’t until she met her music teacher, Mrs. Twinkle, that Chrysanthemum learned that her name was not only uniquely her, it was uniquely perfect for her. Mrs. Twinkle, who was adored by all the students, shared something with Chrysanthemum – a secret of sorts. Chrysanthemum's lovely music teacher proudly declared that her own first name, Delphinium, was so long that it also couldn't fit on a normal name tag and that the inspiration for her name came from a flower as well. It was in this moment I saw Chrysanthemum truly love herself and, despite the bullying and teasing – Chrysanthemum fully bloomed and let her colors shine as vibrant as the book’s bumble bee spine. But the story didn’t stop there, soon her bullies even adopted the names of flowers as their own, if only to impress their music teacher. In the end, Chrysanthemum danced and twirled her way home, knowing that her name was truly special. Of course, it may have helped that her music teacher named her daughter after Chrysanthemum as well.

In the end, I didn’t quite understand why my mother had insisted we read that story during my first week, but I think that’s what made it so special. While I couldn’t see what had truly been burdening me during my first few days, my mother was always able to tell. You see, I wasn’t the most adept speller as a young child by any account, and it wasn’t that I as trying to spell words outside of my comprehension – I mean, even my name was too difficult for me. While I loved my name, I would often choose to go by my much simpler middle name as it was only three letters long. My first name, while significantly longer, was not the only hurdle I had to climb. My mother, who was always determined to make me feel as special as she felt I was, had decided to give me a very unorthodox spelling that only compounded my confusion along with my classmates.

In the end, I was the Chrysanthemum in a world of Samantha’s, Jennifer’s, and Emily’s. Everyone but myself had a name that was easy to trace and even easier to spell, which only forced me into my own shell. While no one had truly teased me for my long name, it was difficult for anyone to play with me as few of them could say it at first and even fewer were willing to try to spell it. But after having my mother read the story time and time again, I began to fall in love with my name more and more.

Why shouldn’t I love my name? If this little mouse could love her name, I should too. My mother gave it to me knowing I was special – different even. To hate my name was to hate myself.

In the end, I would gladly spell it to anyone and would even come up with games to help others to learn how to say it, just so they could include me in their fun too. By the end of the year, everyone knew my name and, while I would love to say everyone became my friend, I’m pretty sure most were. The days are long gone at this point, so it’s hard to think back to a time before I knew what a rhyme was or how to spell the word “cat”. But looking forward, I’m glad my mother had snuck the book into my bags after I had moved out and began to to start a family of my own. While it had been years since I had read it, I’ve thumbed through it more recently now that I have a little Chrysanthemum of my own, my little Ophelia. I hope one day I can have her try to read the book to me, mumbles and all. For now, however, I’ll gladly settle on reading each page to her while I tussle with her little fingers trying to grip the thin paper pages.