baa-baa, billy goad
My Summer of Good Clean Fun continued this evening with a stroll through the Multnomah County Fair here in Portland. Amid the cotton candy and mini-choo-choo ride and elderly lesbian marimba band, even the minorities looked wholesome.
The wafting smell of animal poop led me to the "Livestock" exhibit. From stable to stable and into the petting zoo, I was surprised to find that goats were the friendliest creatures of all. The cows were aloof, the pigs were skittish, and the rabbits frightened me as always. But the goats kept rubbing up against me, nibbling on my dungarees, and staring at me with their crazy-beautiful eyes.
Then, when I heard one make a "baa-baa" sound, all the grade-school trauma came rushing back.
"Baa-baa, Billy Goad" was one of the taunts I used to endure, along with "Goad the toad took a load on the side of the road." I used to hate my surname. I thought it was ugly-sounding and conjured all the familial sludge which I'm perpetually trying to flee.
A 'goat' has many symbolic meanings, none of them positive. A 'goat' can be the opposite of a hero. A 'scapegoat' gets blamed for things it didn't do. And no other animal is cast as the Devil as much as the poor, gentle goat.
But over the years I've taken my last name, digested it, and shit out something better. I no longer hate it. And tonight I discovered that the goats don't hate me, either.
+++++++++
I'm mentioned briefly in this new book, as is Cookie.
