I Could Have Been a Ricardo!
I Could Have Been a Ricardo
So, my name? Julius. Yes. That’s right.
Funny thing is, I was born the youngest of six kids. Four boys, two girls, all lined up neatly before me like a well-worn parade route. What makes that funny? I’m the one who got named after my father.
Let’s rewind for a moment. My mother never liked the name Julius. Which is ironic, considering she fell in love with a man who had it. She once admitted to me that she had a crush on Ricardo Montalbán.
Yes, that Ricardo. Mr. Rourke himself, though her crush predated Fantasy Island. Turns out her taste in men and mine don’t fall far from the family tree. I could have been a Ricardo, had she played her cards differently.
But no. Julius was the problem. When my parents had their first child and it turned out to be a boy, my father was thrilled. He was a junior, you see, and he wanted a Julius the Third. My mother shut that down with a firm, immovable NO. No son of hers was going to be named Julius.
So the first boy became Timmy.
Then came Debbie.
Then Steven. Still no Julius.
Then Chris. Still no Julius.
Then my sister Sandy.
Five kids later, my parents agreed they were done. Finito. End of story. Except my father kept pressing his luck. He wanted one more shot. One more try for a son named after him. And this is where my mother, quite unknowingly, sealed her own fate.
According to my father, her exact words went something like this: “If I ever get pregnant again, which is not going to happen… and if it’s a boy, which again is not going to happen… fine. Have it your way. We’ll name him Julius.”
A few months later, guess who was pregnant. This was the late ’60s, early ’70s. I was born in 1971. No ultrasounds. No gender reveals. No pink or blue smoke cannons. My mother was banking hard on this baby
being a girl.
A little context about my mother. She would have made a fantastic lesbian. She wasn’t one, as far as I know, but she was strong, independent, and far more interested in power tools than baking cookies. She built things. Out of wood. She golfed, fished, bowled, and spent most of her time with other women who preferred the same. Dresses were a necessary evil. Slacks were the uniform. Hair stayed short. Makeup was
minimal. Lipstick, maybe a little blush if the occasion demanded it.
So when I say her crush on Ricardo Montalbán was likely less about romance and more about wanting to hang out and go on adventures, I mean it in the same way I view Heidi Klum. It’s less “be with” and more “let’s go do something interesting.” You get it.
Fast forward again. My mother, nine months pregnant, is in the front room of our house building a brand-
new set of bookshelves. She tells my father she’s going to finish them before she goes into labor. And she does. She finishes the shelves. The next day, her water breaks.
And guess what? It’s a boy. Me. So here I am. The youngest of six. The last-minute surprise. The fourth boy. Named Julius, after my father, because my mother said the words out loud.
They say words have power. Well, I’m proof.
