tavie.com

I was named after history's great mouse.

One of them, anyway. I came to this realization yesterday, coming home from ceramics class. Our instructor is having us design some sort of trophy to represent some ritual of signficance from our lives. She asked us what we might commemorate, and when no one had any ideas, she tried to help us brainstorm by asking if anyone had any tattoos. I was one of only two people who raised their hands. Then she asked me about my tattoo, and as I was explaining why its attainment was a significant event to me, I asked, "Do I look like someone who would get a tattoo?" She responded immediately and with a giant smile, "No, not at all." No hesitation whatsoever. Gee, I would've liked a fraction of hesitation.

But it's true. You have to picture me as I looked last night-- disheveled ponytail, no makeup, clay dust on my face, old pastel-lavender sweater pulled over work blouse, sensible shoes. Mousy. Fat, but mousy. A fat mouse. It's possible, you know. Think of Gus from Cinderella (named after the famous mouse's brother, after all!)

I had my mom present her case to me last night. "Why did you name me Octavia? Wasn't she famous for being ill-treated, misused, a female cuckold, a wimp who stood by a man who treated her like garbage?"

This was, after all, the lady who stood by Antony even as he was off shtupping that Macedonian hussy Cleopatra, even going so far as to adopt their children after they offed themselves. But mom explained it to me this way: Octavia was the paragon of Roman virtue. She stood for everything a Roman woman was supposed to be. She was beautiful, dedicated, a patron of the arts, a devoted mother and wife, protector of the household and family. She did her duty through arranged marriage, as was the way of those times, and remained faithful to that lousy husband of hers because it was the right thing to do. She was loved and renowned. She had devotees.

Well, that doesn't sound particularly mousy, I guess. But she wasn't a diva like Cleopatra. She was stick-straight. She was goody-goody.

"What's wrong with being good?" my mum countered.

Good point.

Still, I think my insistence on being known as Tavie is my effort to claim some of the divadom that Octavia lacked. I'll never be a fabulous Cleopatra. Neither am I a virtuous Octavia. So I'm something new. I'm a Tavie. And, okay, a Tavie is a mouse. But maybe a mouse with a tiny little feather boa in her closet?

Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:23 PM | shower me with attention