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A matter of genetics and family
Jul 6, 2017 23:37:19   #
Dinky
 
My name is Thomas Payne McNally (and that nomenclature is a long story going back to my great grandparents that fled Ireland during the potato famine to Canada, then snuck down into New York City where the Irish, especially Catholics, were not liked nor welcomed; 18th Century patriot names are studded throughout our family to combat, I guess, our foreignness). My Black Irish father was nearly 6' and my Austrian mother 5' even. He was olived-skinned, with dark brown hair and eyes; she was fair-skinned, with blonde hair and blue eyes. I came out dark and grew to an average 5'6”. My three older siblings—two brothers and a sister—all got my father's height and my mother's coloring. I was nicknamed “Dinky” by them. They all saw it as a term of endearment while every time I was called “Dinky,” I felt humiliated but remained silent. Then I found out the real story behind my name.

My family had had a black cat that was the runt of the litter (like me) before I was born. His name was “Dinky.” He never grew to regular size (like me). Scrawny but lovingly playful (like me), something of a mascot, my siblings thought it a perfect “pet name” for their different-looking brother. One day when I was twenty, I whined to my mother about the nickname, and she laughed it off—sweetly, but still with a laugh, lovingly pulling me into a big embrace—and told me the background. It was a week before a huge family gathering for Thanksgiving at my eldest brother's house in Old Chatham, New York. I was fuming. While I was seated at the main table, my cousin Billy, who was one of my favs, said with a big smile, “Hey, Dinky, pass the catnip,” and pointed to the stuffing. I totally lost it. I jumped up out of my chair and it crashed to the floor. I grabbed the corning dish of stuffing and hurled it against the far wall, where it shattered. And then to the stunned gathering pathetically said, “I am not a cat. I am a person.” One beat, two beats—and then everyone burst out laughing, and another beat before almost the entire room came rushing over to me to hug and tell me how much they cared. I am Dinky, hear me roar...thanks to a good family.

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Jul 7, 2017 05:11:34   #
PeterS
 
Dinky wrote:
My name is Thomas Payne McNally (and that nomenclature is a long story going back to my great grandparents that fled Ireland during the potato famine to Canada, then snuck down into New York City where the Irish, especially Catholics, were not liked nor welcomed; 18th Century patriot names are studded throughout our family to combat, I guess, our foreignness). My Black Irish father was nearly 6' and my Austrian mother 5' even. He was olived-skinned, with dark brown hair and eyes; she was fair-skinned, with blonde hair and blue eyes. I came out dark and grew to an average 5'6”. My three older siblings—two brothers and a sister—all got my father's height and my mother's coloring. I was nicknamed “Dinky” by them. They all saw it as a term of endearment while every time I was called “Dinky,” I felt humiliated but remained silent. Then I found out the real story behind my name.

My family had had a black cat that was the runt of the litter (like me) before I was born. His name was “Dinky.” He never grew to regular size (like me). Scrawny but lovingly playful (like me), something of a mascot, my siblings thought it a perfect “pet name” for their different-looking brother. One day when I was twenty, I whined to my mother about the nickname, and she laughed it off—sweetly, but still with a laugh, lovingly pulling me into a big embrace—and told me the background. It was a week before a huge family gathering for Thanksgiving at my eldest brother's house in Old Chatham, New York. I was fuming. While I was seated at the main table, my cousin Billy, who was one of my favs, said with a big smile, “Hey, Dinky, pass the catnip,” and pointed to the stuffing. I totally lost it. I jumped up out of my chair and it crashed to the floor. I grabbed the corning dish of stuffing and hurled it against the far wall, where it shattered. And then to the stunned gathering pathetically said, “I am not a cat. I am a person.” One beat, two beats—and then everyone burst out laughing, and another beat before almost the entire room came rushing over to me to hug and tell me how much they cared. I am Dinky, hear me roar...thanks to a good family.
My name is Thomas Payne McNally (and that nomencla... (show quote)


Welcome Dinky. Lets hear you roar...

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Jul 7, 2017 11:59:45   #
boatbob2
 
IF,you had thrown that bowl of stuffing in MY house,people 2 miles away would hear you crying,, from the ass whipping i would have given you.............

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Jul 7, 2017 21:00:25   #
son of witless
 
Dinky wrote:
My name is Thomas Payne McNally (and that nomenclature is a long story going back to my great grandparents that fled Ireland during the potato famine to Canada, then snuck down into New York City where the Irish, especially Catholics, were not liked nor welcomed; 18th Century patriot names are studded throughout our family to combat, I guess, our foreignness). My Black Irish father was nearly 6' and my Austrian mother 5' even. He was olived-skinned, with dark brown hair and eyes; she was fair-skinned, with blonde hair and blue eyes. I came out dark and grew to an average 5'6”. My three older siblings—two brothers and a sister—all got my father's height and my mother's coloring. I was nicknamed “Dinky” by them. They all saw it as a term of endearment while every time I was called “Dinky,” I felt humiliated but remained silent. Then I found out the real story behind my name.

My family had had a black cat that was the runt of the litter (like me) before I was born. His name was “Dinky.” He never grew to regular size (like me). Scrawny but lovingly playful (like me), something of a mascot, my siblings thought it a perfect “pet name” for their different-looking brother. One day when I was twenty, I whined to my mother about the nickname, and she laughed it off—sweetly, but still with a laugh, lovingly pulling me into a big embrace—and told me the background. It was a week before a huge family gathering for Thanksgiving at my eldest brother's house in Old Chatham, New York. I was fuming. While I was seated at the main table, my cousin Billy, who was one of my favs, said with a big smile, “Hey, Dinky, pass the catnip,” and pointed to the stuffing. I totally lost it. I jumped up out of my chair and it crashed to the floor. I grabbed the corning dish of stuffing and hurled it against the far wall, where it shattered. And then to the stunned gathering pathetically said, “I am not a cat. I am a person.” One beat, two beats—and then everyone burst out laughing, and another beat before almost the entire room came rushing over to me to hug and tell me how much they cared. I am Dinky, hear me roar...thanks to a good family.
My name is Thomas Payne McNally (and that nomencla... (show quote)


I am happy for you that you were able to reconcile with your family. I know so many that never do.

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Jul 9, 2017 16:54:42   #
Dinky
 
boatbob2 wrote:
IF,you had thrown that bowl of stuffing in MY house,people 2 miles away would hear you crying,, from the ass whipping i would have given you.............


Yes, I imagine so. Very unseemly.

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Jul 9, 2017 16:57:09   #
Dinky
 
son of witless wrote:
I am happy for you that you were able to reconcile with your family. I know so many that never do.


It was just my hyper-sensitivity due to my smallness that automatically saw and repelled their loving and good-hearted humor as insult.

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Jul 9, 2017 16:58:17   #
Dinky
 
PeterS wrote:
Welcome Dinky. Lets hear you roar...


Roar, haha, was the wrong word. Screech? Yes, screech works better.

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Jul 9, 2017 23:00:27   #
son of witless
 
Dinky wrote:
It was just my hyper-sensitivity due to my smallness that automatically saw and repelled their loving and good-hearted humor as insult.


What ever you call it, you are to be congratulated in overcoming it. I run into people all of the time who are estranged from their parents and siblings for life. Sometimes it is justified, often it is not. Being able to see beyond the surface and know what is in the heart is a gift. I have a few rough relations who rub a lot of people the wrong way, yet they are the ones who show up when you need them. That to me is the test.

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