The Burdens of Being A Rebel

I am the fourth Rebel in my family. To clarify, I am the fourth woman named Rebel in my family. This tradition started with Rebel Tallulah, born during the Civil War. According to family lore, my great (I'm not sure how many greats go here, and I don't want to lie to you) grandfather was a Confederate general. Knowing that his wife was due to give birth to their first child at any time, he marched his men right into the front yard of his home, where they set up camp. When his daughter entered the world, he took her outside and held her aloft for his men to admire. Someone in the crowd shouted "We have another rebel" and so she was named.

This story is almost certainly bullshit.

I do not know anything about the second Rebel. I have artifacts from the third Rebel, inherited when "I was mature enough to take care of them". This inheritance includes beautiful photographs from the 30's, a christening gown so delicate that I am afraid to touch it, and a family bible that she received for Christmas, 1925. Her daughter was also named Dot, a fact I did not know until my Dot was two years old. I get chills when I think about it.

My parents had not picked a name for me when I was born, though my mom thought Gypsy Rose sounded "nice". While they were mulling it over, my grandmother was babbling about which relative was recovering from which surgery. "They're not sure if Rebel is going to make it" she said. My parents looked at each other, and they knew that Rebel would be my name. I chalk my middle name, Star, up to dirt hippie idiocy.


It is not easy being named Rebel.

When I was in first grade, we had a substitute. She started class by doing roll call. When she reached my name, she said "What is your real name little girl?". I told her that Rebel was my real name. "I do not find this funny child. I will not call you by this nickname, and I insist that you give me your name." My classmates chimed in to support my claim, enraging the substitute. "Go to the office and don't come back until you are willing to tell me your god-given name!" An obedient child, I went to the office, crying, to explain my plight to the principal. She escorted me back to class, and told the monster that my name was, in fact, Rebel.

When I tell people my name, it is not unusual that they demand to see my i.d. I get asked if I have a cause on a daily basis (this is not now, nor has it ever been, funny to me). Someone sings "Rebel Yell" or "Rebel Rebel" to me once a week. I have been accused of being racist, based solely on my name. "I had a dog named Rebel" is another common statement. I want to punch people that tell me that. I had the misfortune of attending a high school that had a football team called the Rebels. the perky girl assigned to give me a tour of the campus said "Ohmygod! It was like you were destined to go here!" Yeah, it was destiny. People love to give me confederate flag gifts. I don't know why. Do people named Marty get gifts of Marty Stuart albums, and all other things Marty?

For years, I have heard stories of other Rebels. "I went to school with a girl named Rebel" or "There was a Rebel in my dance class!" The mysterious other Rebels began to occupy my thoughts. I wondered what their experience as a Rebel had been like. I wanted to ask how they got the name. I wanted to know if they liked it. I wanted to know if they were real.

I met another Rebel last year. She was a middle-aged woman that came into my music store to order a dvd. My friend Daron was getting her information, and asked her name. "Rebel," she said. His eyes got bigger, and he said, "Her name is Rebel," pointing at me. I looked her, and I forgot to ask a single question. I didn't really need to. I could see what I wanted to know in her eyes.