Reid Between the Lines

 

     You ever have one of those moments when your whole life feels like it's built on a typo? Yeah. That was me. Fifty-one years old, thinking I knew who I was- name, family, heritage, the whole "Reid pride " thing, only to find out....apparently, we're imposters. Not intentional ones, mind you. More like...accidental Reid's. 

     Let me back up.

     A few years ago, we were at a family get-together, one of those events where someone burns the meat, someone cries about the past and everybody suddenly remembers they don't actually like each other.  My brother and I started talking about tattoos. You know, meaningful ones. Something that said family.

     He says, "We should get matching ones. Just the name REID, bold and proud."

     I was in. Classic. The kind of tattoo that says, "We may be dysfunctional, but damn it, we're united."

     Then, from across the table, my cousin pipes up: "Yeah, I would hold off on that."

     Boom. Just like that. No explanation. No wink. Just the verbal equivalent of tossing a grenade and walking away. 

     We laughed it off. But it stuck. Hold off? What do you mean? What's wrong with being a Reid? Did the family name end up on a most wanted list I didn't know about?

     Anyway. Years pass. We never got the tattoo's, mostly because procrastination is our love language, but also because I kept hearing that warning echo in the back of my head. 

     Fast forward to now. I'm fifty-one, my brother and I scrolling through family documents, old photo's, whatever breadcrumbs we could find. When- we stumble onto the truth. My grandpa wasn't a Reid. Not even close. His real last name was Le Tissier.

     Le Tissier!

     Sounds fancy, doesn't it? Like someone who sips tea in a linen shirt and says, "darling", unironically. Meanwhile, "Reid" sounds like a guy who fixes your carburetor and calls you "bud."

     Here's the kicker: both of my great-grandparent's, were from the Channel Islands, specifically Guernsey. Tiny, windswept, magical islands with their own language, their own history, and apparently, their own surname traditions that got lost somewhere along the way.

     Apparently, when my great-grandma moved from Winnipeg to Pender Harbour with her new husband (Reid), she brought her two boy's, my grandpa included, and pretty much between the prairies and the coast, POOF! The Le Tissier disappeared, and the Reid's were born. No ceremony. No explanation. Just a little name magic trick. 

     And get this- my dad was one of eleven. Eleven proud Reid's. A whole clan of people walking around with a name that technically isn't theirs. 

     It's a farce. A glorious, generational farce. 

     When I tell people, they either laugh or look deeply uncomfortable, like I just confessed to being in the witness protection program. But me? I honestly don't know how to feel. At this age, am I supposed to suddenly start identifying as a Le Tissier? Get a fancy hat? Learn to pronounce "charcuterie" properly?

     Part of me is fascinated. Part of me feels....duped. But mostly, I can't stop laughing. Of course this would happen. Of course my family, the same people who call Stanfield shirts "The Pender Harbour tuxedo", misplace a last name. 

     There's a strange emotional undertow, though. When I mentioned it to one of my older relatives, we went from talking to...'okay then' in record time. Total shutdown. Like I had brought up something sacred, or scandalous. 

     I realized then that for them, this isn't funny. It's not even something to discuss. To them, it's like I walked into a church mid-sermon and yelled "Hey everyone, did you know the preacher's not really a preacher?"

     It made me think about shame, how it sticks around like cigarette smoke from a generation that swore it quit. Back in my great-grandma's day, divorce was practically a moral crime. A woman leaving her husband and remarrying would've been talked about for decades, especially in small town circles. Changing her son's last names probably wasn't deceitful, it was protective. 

     A new name meant a fresh start.

     And maybe that's what the older generation feels, that digging it up now, after all these years, somehow dishonors the man who raised these boy's under his name. But to me, knowing the truth doesn't erase love or loyalty. It just adds another layer. 

     Still, I'll admit, it's unsettling. Finding out in my fifties, that your name isn't "yours" is like learning your birth certificate was done in pencil...and the erasers been used.

     But that's family isn't it? A weird cocktail of secrets, pride, love, and occasional paperwork error's. 

     The first night after I found out, I sat at the kitchen table staring at my coffee mug, thinking, what else don't I know? Were we secretly Guernsey islanders this whole time? Should I have been pronouncing "Reid" with a dramatic island accent? Then, laughter automatically followed. Because really, what was I going to do? Change my driver's license? Walk into the DMV and say "Hi, I just found out I'm a Le Tissier now?"

     Can you imagine? I'd be there for six hours just spelling it for the clerk. 

     So no- I'm still a Reid. Technically. Emotionally. Historically questionable, but personally consistent. 

     And if I'm being honest, the whole thing has made me love my family even more. Because if this isn't the most us thing ever, turning a divorce, a move, and a name change into a century-long case of mistaken identity, I don't know what is. 

     I haven't told everyone yet. Some people wouldn't take it well. For some, it's not just a name, it's a badge of belonging. They'd rather not know the fine print behind it. And that's okay. Every family's got at least one mystery we pretend isn't there.

     As for me? I can't help but chuckle. Every time someone says "The Reid's are a proud family", I want to raise my hand and say "Technically, your honor, sustained...but with amendments."

     I even revisited the tattoo idea. Because now, I think I'd still get one, but it wouldn't just say 'Reid'. It would say,' Reid between the lines.' 

     A little reminder that identity isn't always what's printed on paperwork. It's the stories, the laughter, the chaos, and the courage to dig up the truth- even when it makes people squirm. 

     I think about my great-grandma sometimes, that long journey from Winnipeg to Pender Harbour, the courage it must've taken to start over, the quiet power of choosing a new name and making it stick. Maybe it wasn't shame she carried, maybe it was strength. 

     And in 2027, when I finally visit Guernsey with my nieces, I'll stand on that island, looking out at the sea, and feel a little closer to where it all began. A connection not through paper, not through a last name, but through the stubborn, messy, funny, beautiful persistence of family. 

     So here I am, decades later, laughing about it all, sipping my coffee, and wearing my "borrowed" name like a badge of honor.

     Because at the end of the day, whether I'm a Reid, a Le Tissier, or something in between, I come from a line of survivor's, storyteller's, and people who can take a family secret and turn it into comedy gold. 

     And really, that's the most Reid thing of all. 

written by Janine Reid