Who am I? Why is that such a ridiculous question at
first, "Who are you?” I say (if and when asked) that I'd reply, in
my ever-so sarcastic yet charming manner, "Why, I'm Tory Cook
(duh?)". Then you have to think,
just exactly who the hell are you? What
makes you you and what makes him him or her her or it it? I then think, I'm an amateur anthropologist,
an empty daydreamer, a half-assed musician, a Southerner, a free spirit, a
survivor, a man. Too many things to
think of in an instance! Of course, you
have to think, "what made me who I am?”
A lot that's what! A lot of crap
and joy and mistakes and fuck ups, a lot of hoorays and right-ons, that's
what. Either way, to quote a recent
influence in life, I'll carry on, either way.
I have a lot to say, and no one to say it to or no one I think wants to
listen. But people do listen to what I
say, even when I'm saying it in a smart ass way to make fun of them, or taunt
their curiosity, or even many times just to hear my own voice!
So, who am I? I was born on October 3rd, 1978, in a hospital in Laurinburg, NC,
on a Tuesday at 4:19pm (a
time that has run its ironic course in my life thus far, just close enough to
the fabled 4:20, but not
quite). My mother was a young woman on
the verge of experiencing the life as a mother of a first born son and a father
who was well, just not ready for it all!
I'm not sure what she’d expected of that kid to become, but her choice
to give birth to a child with a name like mine in a hospital in Scotland County
definitely was a precursor for whom I was to be. As I hear it told, I was quite a spoiled
child, considering I was not only her first, but also the first grandchild on
my maternal side. Counter that with
being born to the second born in that family of seven and I was meant to
receive way too much attention (Did I also mention that was the first
great-grandchild to her mother’s mother too?).
I guess that bit of indulgence might have made somewhat of an
intolerable child, but to my relief (and I'm sure to her dismay), two quite
rowdy brothers followed shortly along! So
we became 3 of the 4 "Cook Boys" of Raeford, NC (the fourth being my
cousin the same as one of my brothers).
I like that I was born in
Laurinburg, Scotland County (it is a real place, full of golf courses, a kilt
clad, bagpipe blowing high school marching band and a whole lot of folks named
McLean, McLaughlin, Mc…), a black American boy from the country named Toriano
Chakar. I have just recently started to
wonder what goes through the minds of people awaiting my arrival, at a job
interview or to greet me for some function.
What is their TRUE reaction when they meet me and not some suave Italian
or Spanish guy with a switch in his walk and an oh-so Mediterranean manner
about him? I hated that name for so
long, partially because of the inability of many of my teachers to pronounce it
(especially the English teachers… you’d think phonetics would be something
someone teaching a language in any capacity would have an inkling of knowledge
about!). However, now I enjoy the
prospect of surprising those awaiting my presence and presenting to them a
young black man from Southeastern NC named Toriano. It's a big task to keep up such a unique
personality to correspond to a name like that!
I think of mama and thank her in my mind for that little gift every time. My name is so much me now that from time to
time, especially in situation where I meet someone I perceive might be
impressed by ‘Toriano’ (hipsters mostly), I shy from presenting myself as
"Tory", my nickname turned common alias for quite some time. Although she may realize it, her singular decision
of choosing that name put me on a road to becoming the worldly freak I now am
now. "Toriano Chakar Cook." Rings like some prolific character in
history, or at least as what I see myself as being one day. I should have been a model. And now introducing... "Toriano"! I
think it rivals Donatella or Twiggy as a title for glamour on the runway any
day (too bad I didn't get the looks or fashion sense to go with the name).
I also grew up feeling a
little weird by my middle name, Chakar.
It was primarily because of pronunciation gaffes, usually with the
person reading the word on a page and struggling to figure it out in their heads,
saying it (always incorrectly) under their breath, typically hitting the ‘r’
too hard or dropping it completely. Most
would just give up and say it wrong, I didn’t care to correct them (they’d soon
forget it and I think I’d already become a little elitist back then so I didn’t
really give a damn anyway!). There we the few, though, who would finally
give in and ask, "is that Chakar, as in chalk or Chakar as in sha?”
Another problem that I
noticed growing up surrounding my name was the general acceptance of it. ‘Tory’ ultimately was simple to say and wasn’t
‘so foreign’, so I think most of people I interacted with in school preferred
it. I was usually one of the few
non-white kids in my classes (even though the schools were pretty proportionate
in terms of the ethnic diversity one might find in a small Southern town in the
Eighties and Nineties. Bane of being one
of the smart kids!). My classmates all
had the name staples of Southern American life; George, Susan, Katie, Richard,
James, Elizabeth; then there I was "Toriano Chakar". Being a rather shy kid, having some teacher
make a show of saying your name and draw much unwanted attention to myself and
my huge glasses wasn’t exactly thrilling.
I think all would have been okay if they only had trouble with Chakar,
but from my earliest memories, you would have thought someone had given people
a Sudoku puzzle of tongue twisters!
I think it is quite ironic
that every country, every region of every country, I've ever visited, no one
has had troubles with pronouncing this linguistically syllable basic name,
except those from my home! If my silly 'English
superiority complex' computer could type in East Asian languages (like Windows
XP support says it can), I could type this name in Chinese, Korean and Japanese
flawlessly! They get it!
Then, as if fate has always
meant to put me back on the ground where I belong, I get the exotic and
awe-inspiring family name, ‘Cook’. It's
like seeing the most beautiful impressionistic mural ever painted, with colors
never conceptualized by a human artist, to only read in the corner
"Created by Wal-Mart".
Damn! Okay, so I am a Cook,
whether I feel some transcendental connection to all the folks of the world and
the human cause or not. It is one
undeniable part of me that connects to who I really am. Cook is my grandfather, my mother's father's
name. His family, as far back as we know
before getting to the whole ‘long trip on a boat’ incident, is from North
Carolina. I hope an explanation of how
we descendants of African-descended slaves ended up with an English name is not
needed! So, I am forever tied to the
geography of my African American heritage.
My mother's mother (Grandma Cook!) is a Washington.
She pretty much grew up in New Jersey, although her family is from South
Carolina. So we, as Black Americans, are
to be known, for now and forever, as Cooks and Washingtons (ain't that some
shit!).
Probably one of the most
culturally saddening, yet hilarious times in my life was as an English teacher
in Korea, hearing a Korean co-teacher state "Wow, you're family's name is
Washington, so you have lineage to the great president George Washington!” If I could only have had the appropriate
Korean language skills and patience to explain how true that statement might really
be! My father's family name is Judd and
if you know Country music, then you can see the jokes that tend to follow when
I announce that little tidbit of my family history (that and the fact that I
have a grandmother named ‘Minnie Pearl’).
His family, comprised of the
Judds and the Manuels, are from North Carolina as well (again I state, as much
as a displaced population like us Black American folks can be from anywhere
outside of Africa, sarcasm very much intended on that one).
Sometimes I feel a little
jealousy towards people with African family names. At least if they don't know where they are
from, really from, they can follow their names.
I could try for a thousand years to trace my history through my names,
Judd, Manuel, Cook or Washington, and would still end up somewhere in Western Europe! Although I might have some milk in this
chocolate, I seriously doubt my people were the descendants of pitifully ‘lost
Moors’, just hangin' out north of the border.
Sad really, when trying to
answer the question, "Who are you?", but guess that's what lets you
know exactly who you are. I like that
part about being American, especially considering that my family has a history
in this country of at least one hundred and sixty years, while there are some
other Americans whose families’ entrance can be traced back to Angel or Ellis
Islands less than one-hundred years ago, yet they don’t know jack about their
Old World roots either! If you can
formulate some definition of "thyself" from the information you got,
well, then you will always know who you are.
So, who am I..., I'm Toriano Chakar Cook!
Gastonia, NC (Spring, 2008)
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