One

I was eight years old the first time my mother told me the story of Deirdre of the Sorrows. This is one of my most vivid memories of my childhood, curled up with my mom on our run-down old couch, my piping little-girl voice asking, “Mama, what does Deirdre mean?”

My mother then commenced telling me of the first Deirdre, who was predicted at birth to grow up into the most beautiful woman in her land, and was promised to the king because of this. At first, this idea delighted me—me, a princess! Then the myth continued, speaking of how Deirdre fell in love with not the king, but one of the king’s soldiers, Naosie. Deirdre and Naosie fled the country, so as to escape the wrath of the king at having his bride stolen. Again, this appealed even to my small self; it was so romantic, running away for the sake of love. I could appreciate it then.

But the story continued. The king was so jealous and furious that he sent his soldiers after Deirdre, chasing her, Naosie, and his two brothers all around the world, finding them again every time they nearly escaped. It was a long hunt that lasted many years. Eventually, though, the king’s many soldiers and resources caught up with them and—here’s where the story starts to get sticky—Naosie and his two brothers were killed in front of Deirdre’s eyes.

The king then took Deirdre back to his land, and forced her to be his wife. Deirdre was, however, so distraught at the loss of Naosie, her one true love, that she died of sorrow. In some versions, she leaned out of her chariot and dashed her head against a rock, effectively committing suicide. Having always been the irresponsible type, my mother didn’t seem to have a problem with telling this story to her young, impressionable daughter.

When she was finished, I’d asked, “But, Mama, why did you name me after someone so sad?”

She’d giggled at me and tugged on my ponytail. I didn’t particularly like having my ponytail tugged, but I allowed it from my mother. I was her best friend, her only friend, perhaps, and so I gave her certain best-friend liberties. “I named you after Deirdre of the Sorrows, my darling,” she’d answered in her melodic voice, “because it is a beautiful name, a strong Irish name. But the name doesn’t mean anything, my Deirdre. Deirdre lived the life she did because of the choices she made. You are Deirdre Clements, not Deirdre of the Sorrows. The name means nothing, darling.” My nose had then been tweaked, an action on which I had the same opinion of ponytail tugging.

I’d nodded agreeably, eager to please, but even then I disagreed with that final point. It seemed like me that Deirdre hadn’t had any choices; she’d been fated, predestined to live the pattern that she did. And later, when I’d found out that the name Deirdre meant “sorrow” in Gaelic, my opinion on this matter had only been cemented: from the moment of her birth, the first time she was named, the Deirdre of myth was destined to spend her days in sorrow.

My mother was wrong on another point as well: I was not merely Deirdre Clements, though that was the name I bore.

I am Deirdre of the Sorrows.