Yesterday on Facebook I mentioned William Shakespeare. I know, Shakespeare seems a little highbrow for that arena, but he was useful for a joke. Within milliseconds, Doug Solstad reinforced what the world already knows when he commented, “Bard. Not Brad. Got it.”
This of course brought back a memory and a story.
My name, Bradley McBride, offers plenty of room for play. Even within my family, I was known as Bardley, Bard, Bardley McBird, McBird, etc. You know, really sophisticated humor. (To this day, I think I have heard the moniker “Bardley McBird” more often than any other attempt at lame humor. Runner up? “What are you going to call your blog when you get older? Old Mormon Man?” Hilarious. Yeah.
When I was a kid, I had no idea that one of history’s greatest authors was known as The Bard. I knew even less that a “bard” was a professional story-teller, composer, and poet in medieval culture. (If you are thinking “Bravely Brave Sir Robin, Sir Robin ran away.” then you’ve got it. (Link)
Nowadays, we associate the title The Bard with William Shakespeare, because of the impact and longevity of his works. So when people would refer to me as the Bard, I should have found some sort of comfort and at least found a way to justify that it could be twisted into some sort of compliment – right?
Instead, I hated it.
My parents were the worst offenders. Both of them were active in the theater and they probably thought the wordplay was cute.
One afternoon, my dad and I had loaded up my Uncle’s truck to take a load to the dump. I was sitting in the cab with my dad. I liked going to the dump, even though it stunk. It was like being on another planet with a million seagulls scavenging around. Bouncing around the cab, no seatbelts in sight. Good times.
In our conversation, my dad said something about The Bard, and I finally lost it. In tears, I got mad at him and told him how much I hated when he said “The Bard,” or called me Bardly.
He looked confused. He had no idea that I harbored these hostile feelings towards The Bard, and it made no sense to him…until we reached the dump. At the entrance to the dump, there was a large sign that said, “The B.A.R.D. Bountiful Area Refuse Disposal.”
That was the only BARD I knew about. The landfill. The dump. I hated the word, and I hated my name being associated with it.
I don’t have a clear memory of how my dad explained things, or if he was supressing laughter the whole time, but I came away with the understanding that The Bard was one of history’s greatest writers, and nobody was calling me “The Dump.”
Needless to say that I was relieved, and I no longer have issues with the landfill.
At least I didn’t until Doug dredged all this up yesterday.
My EC and I met and married while working in our college theater department. Now I worry that we may have caused our daughters unconscious resentment with our quotes, references, and puns.
Because, you know, a bard in the hand is worth two votes for Jeb Bush.
Goes to show how careful we have to be with humour. Humour isn’t funny when it impacts someone negatively (though we aren’t always – as in your case – aware that it may be doing so). Jokes at someone else’s expense are OUT. Aim them at ourselves, not others, and we should be safe.
I have fond memories of going to the dump/landfill myself when I was young, growing up in Granger (now West Valley). Yes, it stunk. And even worse, you had to drive past a pig farm on the way, and that smelled even worse. But, the landfill was a fascinating place, like you said.
Too bad that you had only that “meaning” to Bard for such a long time. Glad you got that straightened out…but perhaps the damage was done.
On the other hand, now I would say that bard fits, after having read so many of your blog entries.
🙂 That is so sweet!
Haaaaaaaaaaa! That is a great story!