The True True Seaborn

A few of you have read some portion of the fantasy novel I’ve been writing for almost 20 years (and still haven’t finished). You may have wondered where I came up with the name of the protagonist, True Seaborn. Even if you haven’t, I’m about to tell you (patience – I do have a reason).

When I first started this back in college around 1983, I collected interesting words and names that I thought I might use ­ I’m not Tolkien and am not going to invent entire languages! I was then working part-time at a printing company, and saw the name “True Seaborn” on the masthead of a magazine that happened to be lying around. I thought it was about the coolest name I’d ever heard of, so I appropriated it for my hero who, among other things, is a sailor. I even wrote a bit of backstory to explain how my character came to have that name, though I’ve always wondered how the original True Seaborn got such a great name. It has class and is full of meaning, yet it’s easy to spell and pronounce – the best of all possible worlds, in a name!

It’s been in the back of my mind for some months to get in touch with the original owner of the name and ask his permission to use it, in case I ever do finish this novel and get it published. I did a Google search and found him easily enough. But then I got distracted and never finished searching out an email address for him.


Well, I didn’t have to. Last week, True Seaborn got in touch with me. It threw me at first, seeing email in my In box from the name I associate with a fictional creation of my own. (Probably there’s the germ of a novel in that, but I digress…). Mr. Seaborn was feeling equally confused. He said: “It is a strange experience to stumble onto a work of fiction that appears at first glance to be written about oneself, by an author one has never met. Of course I’m not quite so vain as to believe you actually wrote your City of Light about me. Still, the name of your protagonist seems like a remarkable coincidence. Would you mind telling me how you came up with it?”

So I explained it to him, and he has graciously consented to let me go on using his name, with some very kind compliments on my writing (he’s now reading through the whole novel). The real True Seaborn turns out to be a very nice person, which is a relief – I might have become hopelessly confused about my protagonist had he been otherwise.


He also told me how he got his name:


“The name Seaborn has two possible origins. One was a family legend that described a young couple from Wales who boarded a ship bound for the New World sometime in the 17th or early 18th century. Either the voyage originated in London and stopped at Liverpool or vice-versa, but according to the story the young man jumped ship at the first stop, leaving his wife to continue the voyage alone. She died in childbirth along the way, and the captain placed the newborn with a family on the coast of Virginia, hence the name. This story supposedly appeared in the Saturday Evening Post, or Colliers, or some such popular magazine sometime in the 1920’s. Whatever the provenance of the name, I’m inclined to believe the magazine story was the source of the family legend and not the reverse.


Militating against the orphan story is the fact that there are a great many Seaborns in Wales and North England today. I met a few of them myself in a trip there about 25 years ago, in an unsuccessful search for relatives. I suppose it’s conceivable an orphan could have been given the name in Virginia, independent of all the real Seaborns living in the Old World, but as you can imagine, I have a built-in bias against such a shameful origin.


I’ve traced our family in this country to a Benjamin Seaborn who died in Tidelands, Virginia, in 1782. I have since learned from a distant cousin that Benjamin was the son of one of two brothers who arrived in Virginia as indentured servants. After Benjamin, the record is pretty reliable – from Virginia, to Tennessee, to Oklahoma, to California.


Another distant cousin let me know he had discovered that the root was Sigbjorne or Sigbjorn, a common Norwegian name today, meaning – I think he said – spear carrier or spear thrower.

The origin of True is fairly direct: I was named after one of my father’s old girlfriends (Mary Ann True). My parents went to their graves without volunteering to explain how that came about, or how my mother felt about it. And I never had the nerve to ask.”


I don’t suppose anyone will ever write a novel with a Deirdré Straughan as the main character – too weird-looking in print, and impossible to spell or pronounce.

The Patented Woman

Congratulate the neo-patentata! (newly-licensed [driver]) I finally had my road test yesterday; it had originally been scheduled for late October but, as it turned out, I was in Texas then. The driving instructor, Massimo, accompanied his mini-United Nations to the exam: one Italian teenager getting her first license; a Moldovan truck driver taking the first of many exams to be fully accredited to drive trucks in Italy; a young Egyptian man who didn’t say much; and myself. There were two other instructors, with one and two students respectively. This particular examiner is known to be quick, and on this day had some other appointment to get to, so he was moving at lightspeed. He didn’t spend more than ten minutes on any of us, and the only maneuver I had to perform was the inversione di marcia (reverse direction – a three-point turn). I was almost disappointed that I didn’t get to show off the parallel parking I had practiced so hard to master. (We had practiced reverse-in parking, too, though you rarely find that kind of parking space in Italy.)

So I have the new-style Italian driver’s license, credit card size, though it’s no more high-tech than the old paper ones – it doesn’t have a magnetic stripe or smart chip. Maybe it’s harder to counterfeit.

I’ll miss Massimo; he was good company for all those hours we spent in the car together. We did most of our driving within the confined area that the examiners use, in preparation for the exam, and it could have been (and sometimes was) very dull, seeing the same scenery over and over. I look forward to driving around some other parts of Lecco now.

The whole process cost me over 1,000 euros, but was the most efficient and certain way to a license. The driving schools have it all down to a fine art, based on many years’ experience. Their lessons for the theory exam are useful for recent immigrants who don’t speak Italian well and are taking the theory exam orally; when a new examiner joins the team, the driving instructors listen in on the oral exams to understand his personal style and favorite questions, so they can help a student prepare for any specific examiner. And they know the fine points that examiners will be looking for in the road test; in my final lesson yesterday morning, Massimo drilled it into me: “Don’t use the clutch when turning! He’ll say you’re not in control of the vehicle.”

The road test is run differently here than in the US. You use the driving school car (the same one you’ve been practicing in), and your instructor sits up front with you. The examiner sits behind you, and quietly tells you what to do. You just keep going forward unless and until he tells you otherwise. The instructor is supposedly there to use the second set of pedals in case something goes disastrously wrong, but he’s also allowed to clarify the examiner’s instructions if needed. In practice, the instructor does what he can to help, giving sly hints via a subtle nod that the examiner isn’t supposed to see.

Massimo’s other students followed in a second car (driven by another employee of the driving school). After my inversione di marcia, the examiner told me to pull over and park, and handed me my license. I signed for it, got out, and the teenager took the drivers’ seat, while I rode in the following car and chatted with the Moldovan. Then it was the Egyptian’s turn, then the Moldovan’s. We all passed.

Finally, we all rode back to the driving school together where our new licenses were photocopied (which makes them easier to replace if lost), and that was that.

I haven’t actually driven my “new” car yet (a hand-me-down from my father-in-law, who no longer drives). This afternoon I’ll drive Ross and her friend to their horses. Which could turn into an adventure. Hamish is now at a private stable on a mountain, inside the private property of a cement quarry and factory. The road from the front gate to the stable is mostly an unpaved mine access road, so you leave your regular car at the gate and drive a company jeep up the hill. The steep hill. With narrow tunnels carved out of the living stone, regulated by traffic lights. Oh, and I did I mention it’s raining…


Dec 3, 2003

Mike L. sent a few notes, comparing his driving exam experience in the Netherlands to mine in Italy:

Parallel parking is NOT a part of our exam. During the exam you will always perform two out of three maneuvers: Reverse direction as you described, taking a (short) turn backwards (you might consider this backward parallel parking), and reverse-in parking.

Driving away on a slope is also a standard item, but in Holland, its very hard to find a spot with enough a slope that would make the car go rolling backwards when you release the brakes! Usually, there is only one such place in a city, sometimes leading to a line-up of vehicles marked with a white-on-blue “L” waiting to practice…

Life Without Buffy

We’re suffering Buffy withdrawal. Angel, the show which spun off from Buffy four years ago, is good, but it’s pretty much guy-centered. I have no complaints about watching all the good-looking men on “Angel,” but I miss the presence of powerful women, and the role model that Buffy provided for my daughter.

Ross started watching Buffy when she was 10, and at age 14 said that she would have grown up a different person without the show.

Hurt, I responded: “You weren’t exactly lacking for a strong female role model at home.”

“Yes, but Buffy made it cool.”

Which is a very good point. Being a strong, self-confident female is not easy at any age; strength is a characteristic not appreciated in women by most cultures or individuals (male or female). It wasn’t easy for me to grow into my strength (compounded, as it is, with geekiness), and I certainly wasn’t comfortable with it as a teenager, if I even had it then. And I spent most of my adolescence in the nurturing environment of Woodstock School, more accepting than most schools of student diversity. So I wouldn’t know how to advise Ross how to feel comfortable in her own skin at this age and place, if it weren’t for Buffy.

But don’t take my word for it. “[Father John] Pungente used Buffy as a role model for conveying solid values for teens. ‘She is smart, willing to learn about herself and live with who she is, even if she happens to be a vampire slayer. She is independent, reliable, maybe too much a Type-A personality, but still an entirely credible 1990s teenager. Other shows deal with teenage problems – love, sex, peer pressure, school work, family problems, body image, dreams, insecurity, self-esteem – but Buffy adapts a literary and film genre for television. The vampire myth and the sexuality it evokes speak powerfully to today’s teenagers.'” (MARTIN O’MALLEY: Orange County blues, CBC News Viewpoint | November 14, 2003)

A point often overlooked by writers about “Buffy” is the role of Xander, Buffy’s average guy friend who, unlike her other friends, has no special powers (magical or intellectual) to help him fight the forces of darkness, both interior and exterior. “You know, Xander is as important a role model as Buffy and people will never really get that, I think, most of ’em. But, the fact of the matter is that I had a two-fold intent, which was to create a role model in the idea of a girl who’s a genuine leader and the role model in a man who is not only comfortable, but turned on by that.” Joss Whedon, MSN Interview

Hear, hear. The world needs not only more women like Buffy, but more men like Xander. Unfortunately for Ross, I don’t think she’ll find many such in Italy, and even fewer in her age range.

English Teaching in Italian Schools

It is admirable that the Italian public school system now requires foreign-language classes (usually English) starting in first grade. Unfortunately, a shortage of teachers means that most kids don’t actually start til 3rd grade. And how much anyone really learns is very much open to question. Parents nowadays are frantic for their kids to speak English well, recognizing its importance in the world economy. They willingly pay for extra classes after school and summer study-abroad trips. Increasing numbers of kids go abroad for a high school junior year in an English-speaking country.

Part of the reason for the teacher shortage is that, at least until recently, you had to be a citizen of Italy to teach in public schools. This means that most foreign-language teachers are Italians, for whom the language they are teaching is at best a second language.

Recently, however, schools have begun to bring in “mother tongue” English speakers part-time, to give the kids exposure to native accents. I hope that this includes some American accents, as many Italians learn English from British teachers, and then have difficulty understanding Americans.

There is no flexibility in the Italian school system for a kid to test out of a subject he or she is already competent in, so Rossella has had to take English in school every year since third grade. Her Italian teachers of English have fallen into two categories: those who see Ross as a resource to be exploited for the benefit of the class, and those who feel threatened by a student who knows their subject better than they do.

Ross’ first English teacher, in elementary school, was probably the best she’s ever had. She would get Ross to tell the class stories or converse with her in English, so the other kids could hear a good accent. She even wanted to use Ross to talk in front of some older classes, but Ross was shy of the older kids.

In middle school, things were very different. There were two English-speakers in the class, Ross and an Italian girl growing up in the British Virgin Islands, where her parents own a restaurant. The English teacher was of the extremely threatened sort, who would correct the girls even when they were right. This woman’s pronunciation was epically wrong, including such gems as: “In England, it is traditional to eat a bowl of soap at the start of dinner.” And: “In England, pizza is pronounced pyza.” When Ross protested, the teacher said witheringly: “We are learning English, not American.”

This woman would insist that the kids memorize pages about English “civilization.” This could have been useful, both for reading English and learning about the culture of another country, except that her material was twenty years out of date. On one test she asked: “True or false: The English only drink wine on special occasions.” Rossella, having often visited her granddad and his wife in England, knew this to be false. Her answer was: “False. Why else would they have pubs?” The teacher disagreed and marked her down, even though Ross had been to England far more recently than she had.

I was even called in for a conference with this teacher once, because she was concerned about Ross’ performance! She was not interested in my suggestions that Ross was bored out of her mind and should be allowed to do something more challenging – that would have created extra work for herself. I’m not sure whether she was insulted or relieved that I conducted the conversation entirely in Italian.

Ross suffered through two years of this, then changed schools (for other reasons). I was impressed that the new English teacher immediately called me in to talk about what Ross should be doing, since it was an obvious waste of time for her to do the same elementary grammar exercises as the other kids. So Ross did some reading and writing in English, and helped the other kids. She spent a lot of time with a boy whom the teachers considered to be retarded. Ross knows something about learning disorders, and thought he was more likely dyslexic: he couldn’t read, but he could remember and work well with whatever she told him orally. The teachers were flabbergasted when Ross eventually got him to write something – in English, no less.

This year, the first year of high school, it’s bad news on the English teacher front again. Ross is forced to do the same stupid exercises as the other kids in the class, and, when she’s finished, she sits and twiddles her thumbs. She was warned in advance that this teacher is the touchy type, so at least she knew to keep her mouth shut. Ross’ friend Viola made a very good grade on the last English test, better than Ross herself (who was marked down for things like not putting a hyphen in ‘forty-nine’). Viola was so happy that she exclaimed excitedly to the teacher: “This is because I studied last night with Rossella!” Which was sooooo not what the teacher wanted to hear. Now Ross will be in demand to help all her classmates prepare for English tests; I guess she could earn some pocket money that way.

February, 2004: The current English teacher has had an epiphany. Some other classes and schools are paying 4000 euros (for the year) to bring in mother-tongue English speakers for conversation. This class doesn’t have to: they have Rossella, and the teacher has pointed out to the class that they should all be grateful for that.

American Stars in Italian Advertising

It’s not common to see big-name American stars in TV ads in the US, but they’re quite willing to do such ads overseas. Here in Italy I’ve seen Harrison Ford in an ad for a French car brand. Andie McDowell has for years advertised an expensive brand of shoes, and more recently cosmetics, for which she appears in TV commercials apparently speaking perfect Italian with no trace of an accent. Leonardo diCaprio has appeared in an ad for Apple Computers. Both Naomi Campbell and George Clooney have appeared in Martini ads; at least both of them actually do spend time in Italy. (In case you’re wondering, Clooney’s villa is on the posh side of Lake Como, near the city of Como – nowhere near us. If I ever run into him, I’ll let you know.)

The Clooney ad is one in a series on the theme “No Martini, no party,” and is cute enough to warrant a description: George rings a doorbell. The door opens, he’s greeted by several attractive young women, and a party is clearly going on inside. “Hello, George,” they say enthusiastically. Then they see that he’s empty-handed, and slam the door in his face, saying: “No Martini, no party.” George realizes his mistake, and returns with a case of Martini. This time the girls greet him warmly, take the box, and slam the door in his face again.

Gwyneth Paltrow has also appeared in Martini ads, which raised some comment as she has stated publicly that she doesn’t drink alcohol.

Deirdré Straughan on Italy, India, the Internet, the world, and now Australia