WRITING WITH ROX WEEKLY PROMPT—MELANCOLE-IA

Lately I've been asking everyone I know and/or run into with great urgency, "Have you seen Melancholia?" I'll find a segue, a far reaching one, at any given moment to slip in this burning question. "You went out of town this weekend? Wow. Well, that reminds me of that movie Melancholia... did you see it?"

The typical response is blank.

Or, "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew... sounds like a winner."

I recover by explaining the plot of the story, that's it's directed by "one of those art house indie Swedish folk" and explain that Melancholia is the name of the asteroid on course to collide with the Earth. The "melancholia" part, I add, is also because, yeah, one of the characters is a bit of a downer.

"Huh," is the response to that one.

Though I truly would enjoy discussing this movie with someone who has seen it, the problem here isn't about the movie per se, but the way I pronounce it, which is exactly the same way my father would pronounce it: "Melan-cole-ia." Thats' M-E-L-A-N-C-O-L-E-I-A, with a long O. The proper pronunciation, as I'm sure you are well aware, is melancholia, —cholia, as in cauliflower, with a short o.

It's not like I'm unaware as this is happening. "Why am I saying it like that? Am I suddenly British? WTF?" I inwardly panic, watching the long O bounce over my credibility as a WRITING TEACHER to complete strangers, and perhaps, old acquaintances who have been suspicious all along.

It's naive of me to think they don't notice, but at least they are kind enough not to comment.

Folks, I know how to pronounce this word. I'm no stranger to melancholia—personally, professionally, academically. I often consider myself a "melancholia buster," in fact, when playing around with silly professional titles less threatening sounding than "therapist."  All the same, this quirky wrong turn of phrase is a direct inheritance from my dad, who indeed fathered several thousand misnomers and malapropisms. He reversed names in ways I never imagined possible. He dropped vowels and in their stead inserted sounds yet unsung. Some words even fell by the wayside only to be replaced by total humdingers. "Open the light, Rox," he'd say, when evening fell over a room. Once when I was visiting someone a hundred years ago in DC, Dad called looking for me. 


"He called me Carol," my macho lover confided, bemused, handing me the phone. His name was Carl.


 So here I am all these years later saying "hey, have you seen Melancole-ia?" 


I'd say dad would be proud, but the truth is I don't think dad was really aware that he did this. To him, Princess Di would always be "Princess Dee," and that's the end of it. Me, I'm quite aware. And frankly, endeared, once I get past the embarrassment. It's no surprise I inherited this trait, really. I also have his handwriting (sorry students!), his perioceptive challenges, and now, some of his gestures.  It's the weirdest thing: I'll be standing talking to someone and catch myself suddenly demure. "Well, what do I know?" I might say after a heated conversation, which is quite out of character as I really do believe I know everything. Still, when spoken, those words are oddly genuine.  In this way, I've exceeded my self-expecations thanks to dad and his quirky kindness. Whenever he played host to anyone—anytime, anywhere, say in conversation with a stranger—but mostly when people came to see him at his beach house loft overlooking the ocean, he made sure they enjoyed every moment of it with a sort of childlike fervor. He'd give up the master bedroom, his car, his routine, his opinion, anything. "No, no," he'd say pawing at the air when folks would object, "take it, take it. What do I need it? Don't be silly. You take it. Enjoy." 


So here I am pawing at the air and speaking malapropisms. 


Since dad died in 2008, I've felt him move through me a bunch of times. I don't say this with any particular woo or belief system (though he did come to me during a Shamanic journey last October in my drum circle, but that's another story), but with the awareness that he lives in me more powerfully than ever before, perhaps as an old mechanism of survival. Perhaps this means I am still in denial, keeping him alive within me so as to never have to really say goodbye. Now, that's what I call "Melancole-ia."

WHAT TRAITS/QUIRKS/ENDEARMENTS/ANNOYANCES/ETC HAVE YOU INHERITED FROM A PARENT? SO I'VE GOT MA'S ADD AND DAD'S QUIRKY LINGO, WHAT HAVE YOU GOT? AS ALWAYS, WRITE UNTIL YOU FEEL LIKE IT IS ENOUGH FOR NOW AND AS ALWAYS, PLEASE, PLEASE SHARE—EITHER WITH ME OR SOMEONE (ELSE :))YOU LOVE. THANKS FOR READING AND SHARING AND HOPE TO WRITE WITH YOU SOON! XOOX