Daddy, The Name Caller

This morning I am thinking about the nickname my Daddy gave me when I was just entering my teens.  It all started while the two of us were riding in the car one day, and the song “Brick House” by the Commodores was playing on the radio.  When it got to the part about “36-24-36,” I asked what that meant.  After he explained, I became absolutely intrigued.  As soon as we got home, I found one of my mom’s measuring tapes and headed for my bedroom.  There I eagerly measured myself to see if I met the “brick house” standard.  Suffice it to say, my own dimensions fell short of the ideal described in the song, and I was quite disappointed.  My dad took notice of my sad face as I was returning the measuring tape to its place.  He must have quickly realized what I had been up to, because that’s when he gave me my new nickname.  He started calling me “Condo.”  He said it was because I was still fine, even if I wasn’t a brick house.  (Of course, then, he had to explain to me what a condominium was.)  I cannot adequately describe what a boost that was to my fragile, adolescent self-concept.  Although Daddy was the only one who called me “Condo,” the moniker was adopted in our household without ceremony or question.  Looking back, I see for the first time a powerful lesson in what my dad did when he gave me that nickname.  Essentially, he was teaching me how I can wisely respond to the popular or established standards communicated through music, movies, and other forms of media—whether they relate to beauty, success, love, or happiness.  When I don’t “measure up,” I can look for the value, strength, and worth in my uniqueness.  I don’t need to conform, but neither do I need to condemn.  Rather than lament what I am not, I can acknowledge and celebrate the wonder of who I am.  Sitting here, I realize how I miss being called, “Condo.”  Perhaps the name will be resurrected someday…somehow.  But for now, and for always, I know I can call myself blessed.