When my father was young, my grandfather would always remind him about our family tradition. For my father’s entire life, every few months my grandfather would bring it up. Remind my father that he would have to follow suit. I don’t really know when my father stopped being proud of his family’s heritage and began to cringe. 

My father supposed he could maybe get around the tradition, so he named my eldest brother Hank, after my grandfather. My grandfather was so upset by this, that he refused to talk to my parents for three or four years. As a result, Hank has never been too fond of my grandfather, and has always insisted he be called “Henry”. I never do though. I got the raw end of the deal. He should have my name. 

When my brother was about 5, my sister was born, and my grandfather began to come around again. By then, her name was already recorded on the birth certificate, so it was too late. My brother once told me that he heard our dad arguing with our grandfather, over the phone, “Well its pretty fucking easy for you, Dad, your name is Leo! …You think I’m actually supposed to name my next son that!? How the hell is he supposed to introduce himself? Or get a job? Even Gem had it easy. I will not name– No, listen to me– God dammit Dad, I am not– I don’t care about the fucking tradition!“.

This was only really significant because it was the only time my brother has ever heard our father cuss. 

I still never have, I wasn’t born yet. My grandfather was getting old, and he was ill, so when my father found out that Mom was pregnant with a boy, he finally agreed to the tradition. When I was born, even as ill as he was, my grandfather came out to see me, and check to make sure I was real. 

Since he was satisfied that I was, he went back home, and died a few weeks later. 

I suppose it is ironic then. What my grandfather died of, that is. 

Our family’s tradition on my Dad’s side was to name a child after the parent’s zodiac sign. It didn’t really matter if the parent was a man or a woman, just whatever firstborn was unlucky enough to be spawned from Donavan brood. Aunt Gem passed on the tradition in her family, so I wonder if it was supposed to be a clever way to give the women from my Dad’s family some power after they married into new families. We’ve got the entire horoscope worth of cousins at our family reunions.


My grandfather’s birthday was the eighth of July.


That’s why, when I was born, my father named me Cancer.

Author’s note: I originally wrote this around 2010, long before either of my parents’ cancer diagnoses. It was inspired loosely by both Faulkner and Palahniuk, and it seemed like a pretty morbidly ironic way to start archiving my writings.