A Sedaris-esque Name Dissection

I've never liked my last name. It's too close to the word custodian. In the back of my mind, I felt like the custodian connection was actually a prophecy. Surely, I would be destined to be a janitor for the rest of my life, just as someone with the last name Black should expect to be black one day. Although no one ever made the connection to my face, I always felt like that was the joke behind my back, that the people who didn't like me gathered together and made infinite puns about myself collecting mounds of trash and being it too. Maybe no one ever said it to my face because it's too obvious. Have I surrounded myself with creative people, or with people who are actually too nice to say something like that? Probably creative.

My recent trip to Brazil, however, has taught me to respect my last name in ways I hadn't anticipated. The first reason is rather pretentious, but I won't pretend I don't enjoy it. My last name has an accent! It's Custódio! What was once a lowly janitor has blossomed into a jungle medicine woman or a Spanish bull fighter! I know it's minor, but I enjoy knowing that all this time, I was right to say CustAHdio and not CusTOEdio. The next time someone says that, I will certainly point out that there is an accent, you ignorant, ignorant person.

The next reason I began to love my name comes from the Portuguese dictionary. According to my pocket version, "custódio" is an adjective meaning "guardian angel." I don't this is amazing for religious reasons. Rather than a normal angel stalking people to make sure they're okay, I imagine something out of an apocalypse movie, where humanity's last hope lies in a ripped, fallen angel with a firey sword and wicked catchphrases.

Despite being bored to death every Sunday for 17 years of my life at a church of the same name, St. Joan of Arc is my favorite saint. She exemplifies what it is to be courageous and to do what you believe is right with any means necessary. She's not one of those saints who was just lucky and had toast that happened to burn with Jesus' face on it. She cut off her hair and rode into battle. She is my real life example of how I picture a guardian angel.

I'd like to think that if guardian angels exist, she would be mine, engaging in a constant, epic battle between good and evil all around me. Much better than a janitor sweeping up your tracks.