Thoughts on a Child
Erin Douglass
Roxy®July 2007
It never occurred to me when planning our recent trip to Oahu that we were headed into the Land of Roxy.
Sure, our daughter loved the water. She loved the sand. She loved the goats at the petting zoo, the shallow keiki swimming pool, and the opportunity to wear very little.
I'm talking about Retail Roxy. Unsurprisingly, the Aloha State turns out to be a natural fit for the Quicksilver (males) and Roxy (females) surfer/skateboarder/sunbather clothing brands.
This meant that at shop after shop in Waikiki we'd spot Roxy® t-shirts and Roxy® bathing suits, Roxy® dresses and Roxy® hoodies. And not just for me to sport. The toddler line starts at 2T, which means in mere moments our currently 18-24-month-wearing child will be able to don her very own Roxy® shirt dress ($40), bikini ($28) or sunglasses ($15), bank account — and moral compass — permitting.
Until our trip, we'd chosen to remain mostly on the Roxy® sidelines. It wasn't hard, really. She was too small for the clothes, and the overpriced gear — shades and towels, bags and baubles — just wasn't baby appropriate.
Our one concession: shopping at Bed, Bath and Beyond a month after Roxy's birth we spotted an entire section of Roxy® home decorating options.
"Look!" I yelled, narrowly missing a stack of microwavable slippers as I dashed to the display. "Roxy sheets!"
After oohing and aahing over the snazzy pink-and-brown color palette and fun designs, we tossed an overstuffed pillow emblazoned with "Roxy" into our cart. Who could blame us?
Growing up with the name Erin in the 70s, it's important to note, offered all the shopping thrill of a collective vegan farm.
The mini personalized license plates on drugstore spinner racks never had an Erin. The rainbow stickers surrounding bubbly-lettered names marched from Eric and Erika straight to Evan and Ewan. Rubber stamps, iron-ons, Trapper-Keeper notebooks from CVS — not a one ever said Erin.
So I feel fine with this nominative link between Roxy and Roxy®. Our daughter can easily find some zippy things with her name on them, if she likes. If she doesn't like, she can stroll right by the offerings on her way to the all-black, rebel-against-your-parents racks.
And as I explained to my slightly appalled mother when we shared our naming plans several months before The Big Push, "Roxy" makes me — and, happily, Jon — think of energy, confidence and zest. Fearlessness. Spirit. Plus, it's fun to write. Even better, it contains the cool, satisfying bite of an "x" before the high-five of its final, endearment-ready "y."
"But it's the name of every dancehall across America," my mom countered, hands audibly wringing over the phone.
"So?"
"And imagine when she's trying to get a job, having to put that on her resume."
In this age of "Apple" and "Stone" I had a hard time relating.
And yet I understood that she was having a hard time relating to us, too. Raised by a mother named Hazel and elbow-to-elbow with other Judys in her graduating class, my mom reflects the naming prejudices of her generation — just as we all do.
I ended up sharing that I thought Roxy had actually chosen her own name. Six months pregnant and highly distractible, I'd been clacking away at my work computer one afternoon when the name suddenly bounced into my mind like a ball tossed from the clouds.
I turned to a colleague (who happens to be named Erin) and said, light bulb glowing above my head, "I've got it!"
"You've got what?"
"Her name will be Roxy."
Erin, knowing we'd been waffling unenthusiastically between Lucy and Olive, agreed this was a splendid idea.
In the end, my mother did come around. In fact, she's now one of Roxy-the-name's biggest fans.
And while we didn't end up buying Rox any clothes in Hawaii, we did come home with a handful of pink and blue Roxy® stickers from the Quicksilver store. When the guy behind the counter found out our daughter's name, he gave them to us free.