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Naming her first child “Derby” was Sheila Dugan’s rather feeble attempt to make her infant special in world that would otherwise view her as ordinary.
According to Sheila: “People won’t forget a name like Derby Dugan; with a name like that, she can do anything.”
You have to remember this was 1963 when common names were, well, common. Children were usually named after relatives or saints and often had ethnic influences.
I knew kids with names like Sean, Patrick, Joe, Tony, Mary, Kathryn and Grace. I new one guy named Jeremiah, but everyone called him “Jerry.”
Sheila Dugan’s new baby was the first, and last, Derby I have met.
The Dugans were one of only a few truly poor families that I grew up with. Though as a child I was not privy to the finances of my friends’ parents, I do know that all my friends had enough to eat and decent clothing. The Dugan kids were thin, dirty, often sick and poorly clothed. There were four of them living with their mother in a small apartment not far from my family.
Mrs. Dugan worked in a shoe factory and was raising her children alone. There was Sheila, Martha, Richard and Amy. Mrs. Dugan had a few “boyfriends” who moved in and out of the house over the years. The only thing I remember about any of them was they were all missing front teeth.
Amy was the youngest of the Dugans; she and I were about the same age. In third grade, she had pin worms and lice. A school nurse came in to check all the other kids to see if we were infected. A note was sent home to all the parents to be on the lookout for both maladies. The note didn’t say who brought the scourge to school, but everyone knew.
Sheila was the oldest child only about 15 years younger than my mother. She was plain and skinny with thinning hair. She quit school in her mid teens to work in a factory and would also occasionally babysit for my siblings and me after work.
Often was the case that Sheila would arrive early and take a bath. My older sister told me that where she lived, there was no hot water.
My mother took Sheila under her wing. She would give her clothing and make-up and sometimes they would sit in the kitchen drinking tea.
My father would say: “That girl is going to get herself in trouble one day and end up just like her mother.”
Sheila did get herself into trouble, and Derby Dugan was the result. The father — again according to my older sister — was a sailor. When Sheila took a bus to the Navy base to tell him she was pregnant, she found he had given her a fake name.
Most other girls would have been more embarrassed about her situation; Sheila was blessed with low self-expectations.
A few months after Derby was born, Sheila came to our house to say goodbye. She was moving up to Maine to live with a relative who had three children herself and no husband.
My mother had packed two bags of old clothing for both mother and infant, and my Dad was taking them to the bus station later that night.
While Sheila and my Mum sat in the kitchen having tea and going through the clothing, I was charged with watching Derby. In those days there were no car seats or baby carriers; children were carried by hand. Derby was placed, sleeping, in the middle of my bed. My mission was to keep an eye out and, if she awoke, to keep her from rolling off.
I remember it so well because, at about age 10, I had what I consider one of my earliest sophisticated insights. I looked down at that innocent child with the stupid name, and I had a portentous epiphany that, for this kid, there was little hope. She was being raised by a poor, uneducated mother who was likewise born into ignorance and poverty. The unfairness of it all was overwhelming.
When my mother came in to get Derby, I was crying. When I told her of the injustice of being brought into the world unwanted, underprivileged, and given a dumb name, my Mum said something to the effect, “Only God knows what life this child will have. Stop crying and help carry Sheila’s bags to the car.”
The rest of the Dugan family moved away soon after; I have no idea where. I also have no knowledge of what became of Sheila and her daughter. I often have wondered if, as her mother had hoped, Derby’s unique forename spurred her on to greatness; stranger things have happened. We live in a nation where grand things are possible for even those born disadvantaged and saddled with odd names. We will soon have a president named Barack Obama. ...
Jeffrey Bergeron, under the alias of Biff America, can be seen on RSN TV and read in several newspapers and magazines. He can be reached at biffbreck@yahoo.com. Biff’s book “Steep, Deep and Dyslexic” is available from local book stores or at Backcountrymagazine.com.
According to Sheila: “People won’t forget a name like Derby Dugan; with a name like that, she can do anything.”
You have to remember this was 1963 when common names were, well, common. Children were usually named after relatives or saints and often had ethnic influences.
I knew kids with names like Sean, Patrick, Joe, Tony, Mary, Kathryn and Grace. I new one guy named Jeremiah, but everyone called him “Jerry.”
Sheila Dugan’s new baby was the first, and last, Derby I have met.
The Dugans were one of only a few truly poor families that I grew up with. Though as a child I was not privy to the finances of my friends’ parents, I do know that all my friends had enough to eat and decent clothing. The Dugan kids were thin, dirty, often sick and poorly clothed. There were four of them living with their mother in a small apartment not far from my family.
Mrs. Dugan worked in a shoe factory and was raising her children alone. There was Sheila, Martha, Richard and Amy. Mrs. Dugan had a few “boyfriends” who moved in and out of the house over the years. The only thing I remember about any of them was they were all missing front teeth.
Amy was the youngest of the Dugans; she and I were about the same age. In third grade, she had pin worms and lice. A school nurse came in to check all the other kids to see if we were infected. A note was sent home to all the parents to be on the lookout for both maladies. The note didn’t say who brought the scourge to school, but everyone knew.
Sheila was the oldest child only about 15 years younger than my mother. She was plain and skinny with thinning hair. She quit school in her mid teens to work in a factory and would also occasionally babysit for my siblings and me after work.
Often was the case that Sheila would arrive early and take a bath. My older sister told me that where she lived, there was no hot water.
My mother took Sheila under her wing. She would give her clothing and make-up and sometimes they would sit in the kitchen drinking tea.
My father would say: “That girl is going to get herself in trouble one day and end up just like her mother.”
Sheila did get herself into trouble, and Derby Dugan was the result. The father — again according to my older sister — was a sailor. When Sheila took a bus to the Navy base to tell him she was pregnant, she found he had given her a fake name.
Most other girls would have been more embarrassed about her situation; Sheila was blessed with low self-expectations.
A few months after Derby was born, Sheila came to our house to say goodbye. She was moving up to Maine to live with a relative who had three children herself and no husband.
My mother had packed two bags of old clothing for both mother and infant, and my Dad was taking them to the bus station later that night.
While Sheila and my Mum sat in the kitchen having tea and going through the clothing, I was charged with watching Derby. In those days there were no car seats or baby carriers; children were carried by hand. Derby was placed, sleeping, in the middle of my bed. My mission was to keep an eye out and, if she awoke, to keep her from rolling off.
I remember it so well because, at about age 10, I had what I consider one of my earliest sophisticated insights. I looked down at that innocent child with the stupid name, and I had a portentous epiphany that, for this kid, there was little hope. She was being raised by a poor, uneducated mother who was likewise born into ignorance and poverty. The unfairness of it all was overwhelming.
When my mother came in to get Derby, I was crying. When I told her of the injustice of being brought into the world unwanted, underprivileged, and given a dumb name, my Mum said something to the effect, “Only God knows what life this child will have. Stop crying and help carry Sheila’s bags to the car.”
The rest of the Dugan family moved away soon after; I have no idea where. I also have no knowledge of what became of Sheila and her daughter. I often have wondered if, as her mother had hoped, Derby’s unique forename spurred her on to greatness; stranger things have happened. We live in a nation where grand things are possible for even those born disadvantaged and saddled with odd names. We will soon have a president named Barack Obama. ...
Jeffrey Bergeron, under the alias of Biff America, can be seen on RSN TV and read in several newspapers and magazines. He can be reached at biffbreck@yahoo.com. Biff’s book “Steep, Deep and Dyslexic” is available from local book stores or at Backcountrymagazine.com.
