MoNogRam
If there is power in a name, there must be more in a monogram. Historically, only the wealthy could afford to heap lumps of belettered thread onto their possessions. Their monograms did not scream, “MINE!” but merely whispered the ownership of property. This was executed mostly subtly, stitched onto a cufflink, or delicately blended into a linen bedsheet.
As personal fortunes increased and the cost of frippery-do-dahs decreased (such as home die-cut machines, which have turned simple photo albums into feverish visions of zebra print bubble letters), more of us gained the ability to monogram with ease.
Modern Southern women have taken this insanity to new heights.
We have chosen to not only monogram traditional items, but to slap our initials on anything that will sit still. You will know who you’re dealing with, from the tops of our Script-monogrammed headbands to the tops of our Block-monogrammed boots. Or flats. Usually, we have both.
Our monogrammed scarves wave proudly in the breeze, declaring our identities like crested banners flying high atop a castle. We shake your hands in friendship, our grips warm from monogrammed travel coffee mugs. As you look down at the adorable tiny children who belong to us, you notice that each outfit is embroidered with their initials, or, worse still, their whole first names.
The only ones who remain unaffected are our spouses, who loudly threaten to have “POO,” “BUT,” or “FRT” stamped on new license plates if they are forced to wear monogrammed clothing.
“I’ll even buy a Smart Car and call it the Fart Car,” one husband said. “Get my t-shirts away from your sewing machine!”
Like many of my friends, I received my first monogrammed item before I was born. My daddy had purchased a little camera that came with letter stickers, allowing for customization.
Daddy had dreamed that he and Mama were going to have a girl. At the time, ultrasounds were not readily used to determine a baby’s gender. He thought the Lord had sent him the dream, and as an act of faith, he attached my initials to the camera.
My uncles gave him a lot of grief about it. He was one of six brothers. In fact, I’m not sure how my lone aunt survived the testosterone tumult growing up, but I digress.
“That little boy you’re gonna have will feel really bad when you name him Heather,” was their usual smart-mouthed retort.
Of course, I was born, and Daddy was able to claim the victory on the camera.
Hallelujah.
We used that camera for years, until the manufacturer stopped producing the ice-tray-shaped flash bars for it. The camera was a special reminder of God’s goodness to Daddy, and to myself. Of course, monogramming it had predictable and sweeping results.
Nowadays, I am well-identified. For instance, I carry a monogrammed bag in which I can fit both my monogrammed Bible cover and monogrammed stationery. I even cut out the monogrammed parts of worn-out items I’m about to toss.
I’m not sure what I plan to do with all of these. Maybe I’ll design an accent wall and glue them all up there. It ought to go great with the Fart Car.
I must draw a line somewhere, though. I choose not to monogram our family’s ski mask collection. Maybe it’s just me, but I prefer anonymity in some situations.
