I had reached the epitome of Primary School life. I was in the Blue group for maths. You weren’t supposed to know that it was the top group, but it was. Johanna wasn’t in it and Rebecca was. You knew, by those things if nothing else that this was the way it was. Hierarchies are important to kids. They help you understand where you stand. After months in the red group, I was at the top, working really hard and the pronouncement had been made that I could swagger my way to the blue group for maths. If it had been Friday I would have been thrilled, but this Monday nothing could lighten my mood.
I was a gimmicky kid, much to my Mother’s disapproval, and largely because of it, I had no interest in her quality wooden toys I wanted Carebears ™ and My Little ponies ™ and plastic made by children in Taiwan. Most of all, most of all, I desperately wanted a pencil with my name on.
Whenever there was a trip I would find the carousel of unicorn and rainbow emblazoned crap, I would search for the S names and there I would find Sarah, Susan, Steven, Sian and Stuart and Scott but never a Serena. It became a ritual, visit a historical place, search for the gift shop, search for pencils with names on, find the S’ group and then bitter disappointment every single time. I had never really understood that I had an unusual name. My reasoned, logical, explanation was they had sold out of my name. In my mind, hundreds of little girls had come to the museum/ cathedral/ house or another place of historical significance, moments before I arrived purchased the Unicorn rainbow pencils and left. The curly-haired girls with the pretty dresses were now happily filling out their rather prosaic Cathedral worksheet with the pencil that proudly bore their name… SERENA
It seemed that misfortune seemed to follow me everywhere I went. There was always a gift shop, there was always a carousel of pencils but there was never a Serena. In my 7-year-old logic the only explanation could be that they had sold out.
By the time I reached 8 I had seriously had enough of this misfortune and I was bent and determined to get to the bottom of the pencil mystery. We had family visiting and so we took a trip to our local historical house. I gave my parents the slip and headed to the gift shop. Sho’ Nuff a large space where the Serena pencils should be. I approached the gift store worker. He was about 17 but looked so grown up and wore a name badge. Pulling myself up to my full 2 ft 6 height I took a deep breath and said.
“You’ve sold out of the pencils with my name on.”
Him: Oh what’s your name
Me: Serena
Him: That’s an unusual name, we don’t have that name, it’s too weird.
Me: But I want a pencil with my name on.
Him: We don’t sell them, you’re too weird
I turned before the first tear fell. This revelation was no small tragedy. In a kid’s life, there are small tragedies and enormous tragedies. This was a tragedy on the magnitude of discovering that Santa is not a real thing, and merely an anagram of Satan, a real thing. I ran to the woman’s toilet where I locked myself in. Sobbing, I'm weird, my name is weird. I'm never going to find a pencil with my name on. I sat there for hours. It might have been 3 minutes. I walked out to discover my Mum unfazed looking around at the pillars or stain glass or some other thing that was not a pencil with my name on.
“Do you want to go to the gift shop?”
I do not want to go. Gift shops have lost all their allure. I shake my head. The depression and trauma lasted all weekend. Saturday night treats did little to improve my mood. Sunday consisted of a walk at our local lake where the ducks and swans taunted me with their honks that sounded like “pencil with my name on.” The tragedy lessened with the purchase of a 99 but the flake morphed into my beloved pencil.
The next Monday at school Mrs Hackett announced that we were all moving groups for maths. I sheepishly and humbly took my seat at the blue table. I looked over and Rebecca was not holding a school-issued pencil. It was not a 2 b. It was not hexagonal. Her pencil had a smooth circular shape. A pencil of the jaunty variety. It was not burnt Sienna in colour. It had a unicorn and a rainbow on the side. Right there, at the very top, in slightly chipped, tacky gold paint, it was emblazoned REBECCA. I was devastated. If I couldn’t have a pencil with my name on it, why did Rebecca get to have a pencil with her name on? It was just so unjust. I didn't get to choose my moniker. It couldn't be that unusual my rather dull parents had thought of it.
Rebecca went to fetch the milk for our class that morning. She returned to discover her personalised pencil had a broken lead. I didn't volunteer my sharpener when she asked for one. She finished her maths lesson with a homogeneous, hexagonal pencil like the rest of us. I felt better.
We get to fast forward to 2013 now and to be honest I still like the idea of personalised things, my brother does too. His name is Courtney and he’s never had a pencil with his name on. It's Christmas and he hands me a roughly wrapped bottle-shaped gift. It's a bottle of wine, Pinot grigio, called Serena. Take that Rebecca, child genius, in the rock paper scissors of adulthood wine beats pencil every single time and twice on Sundays.
