Zaire Lancaster Memoir 2 Revised

Though I cannot recall a time where I felt anonymous, there are a few key occasions where I was anonymous by choice. In High school, to get our elective credits we have a period in which half of the year we have gym and the other half would be health, music, computer class or a free period for 9th, 10th, 11th, and 12th graders respectively. In the spring of eleventh grade, I transferred from my computer class to gym. Previously I’d be in a group of younger kids so we would never have dibs on the court but now since I was older it was our time to play whatever we wanted. Others chose basketball and I was picked as a tall guy that looked good. Unfortunately, looks can be deceiving, I wasn’t good, but that game piqued my interest.

After becoming interested in basketball, to even be semi-competitive, I knew I had to practice. To improve my skills I would wake up early on the weekend and shoot around for a few hours before playing with and against many different people allowing me to learn and act immediately. Throughout my four years of playing, I got to know a guy we’ll call Q.

         Q spends most of his free time at the park playing basketball and watching his two younger siblings, one boy, and one girl respectively. The girl was a mischievous tomboy, always getting people with water balloons or water guns and running away in a giggling spree. The boy being the youngest was always attached to the hip of his older brother like a joey in a pouch. When Q wasn’t playing basketball he taught his brother and the younger kids how to play. Everyone he plays with knows his name and he theirs, even making nicknames up for them, everyone but me. Somehow over four-plus years, Q stills does not know my name. Funny enough, this isn’t done on purpose, it may just be a reflection of my demeanor. When playing basketball I cut the small talk and watch every motion, every decision, and even every made or missed basket on the court. This allows me to focus on the game, improving just by watching.

       To refrain from confusing them, others have taken it upon themselves to give me a few nicknames based on my attire. They range from “Marine” because I wore a marine shirt, to “Glass” because of my sports goggles to even “Grey” for (you guessed it), me wearing grey. As the nicknames began to pile on, I realized few knew my name and even fewer had a creative gene. Though it didn’t bother me,it reminded me of something. I call them friends but these were strangers, people I have met that happened to share a common interest. They’re nice people but whether or not I became friendly with them would not change my life, I could just be anonymous with a different nickname everyday. The anonymity didn’t bother me either, I came to play, get a workout, then leave, and I did that. My name would neither help nor hinder the process, I  could be a glasses-wearing, grey-suited marine, and I’ll still play hard and play to win. 

           I like the name given to me because it’s unique and was an actual place, making it special. The lack of caring if others know it comes from a combination of being raised to be private and my J.R.O.T.C days in high school where we all refer to each other by our last names to practice professional etiquette. It is something that stuck with me and though I don’t go by my last name to people I have just met, me not using my first name is something that I may keep going, gathering hundreds of uncreative nicknames through the years.