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ANNOUNCEMENT
The scene is some time when I was in ninth grade, sitting in Dr. Z's Latin class, next to my close friend Sam. I'm not sure exactly when this took place, but my best guess is sometime in February. (It was definitely not early in the year, and Doc Z stopped working there around March.) I've settled on February 19th as the date I assign to this event in my memory, even though that was probably Presidents Day that year.
Sam and I were chatting as we often did. The subject somehow turned to handwriting. I told him that my natural handwriting was so bad that he might not be able to read it. To prove it, I signed my name on a piece of paper and handed it to him. He looked at it for a bit, squinted, and asked, "Desh???"
From that day on, Sam never called me anything but Desh. Some other classmates eventually overheard it and took to calling me Desh as well. The nickname has spread, with my rarely helping or hindering it. Today, I'd guess that about one-third of the people in my life call me Desh at least sometimes.
And as of (around) today, I've been known as Desh for half of my life.
Sam and I were chatting as we often did. The subject somehow turned to handwriting. I told him that my natural handwriting was so bad that he might not be able to read it. To prove it, I signed my name on a piece of paper and handed it to him. He looked at it for a bit, squinted, and asked, "Desh???"
From that day on, Sam never called me anything but Desh. Some other classmates eventually overheard it and took to calling me Desh as well. The nickname has spread, with my rarely helping or hindering it. Today, I'd guess that about one-third of the people in my life call me Desh at least sometimes.
And as of (around) today, I've been known as Desh for half of my life.
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