I blame my parents for the way I am.

I know that most seventeen year old kids think and say that, but I really, really mean it. I can actually, and do, blame my mother and father for the way my life has been. Personally, I think it all goes back to the exact moment in time that two Greek mythology geeks decided to marry and bear offspring. Because that’s what my parents were and are, folks, grade A, undeniable, unbelievable geeks. Actually, in my humble opinion, there hasn’t been a word invented yet to describe their level of geekdom. But I digress.

I want to reflect back on a time when I was not yet born. A time when young Steven Walker and dear Nidia Schinden were midway through college. They had grown up on opposite sides of the state. What divine power was it, then, that would bring both souls to attend a college miles away from their homes? Its fabulous history department. Steven had had a great passion for Greek mythology ever since he could remember. In reality, this probably meant, “from birth,” but moving on…Sweet Nidia had had only a mild interest in history and the Greek myths. When they met for the first time--Steven had nearly ran her over, trying to get the last piece of cake from the dessert area. Years later, he would come to deny this--Nidia’s major was undecided. It was only after meeting her future husband and finding that she too had a passion for the past--Greek culture and myths in particular--did she choose a major in education, focusing on ancient history. Meanwhile, Steven was also majoring in education, only he was focusing on--you guessed it--Greek mythology. As their daughter, I say this with as much love as possible: damn them both.

Moving ahead in the story, the two moon-struck geeks married right out of college. A year later, both had jobs at a high school not far from their college and were the proud parents of a baby boy, my older brother. This is where it all really went downhill. Although I was still not born unto this world, I can still imagine the scene of my brother’s naming as if I had filmed it.

My mother laying on a hospital bed--the dark hair closest to her head wet with the perspiration of childbirth--holding my brother in her arms. My father, standing over them--his blond hair messy from running his hand nervously through it so much--a proud smile on his face. Both of them with their blue eyes twinkling, looking down at my bother. And then…it happened.

“Let’s give him a unique name. Something we can put a story to when he asks us how we came up with it. What do you think?” my mother probably asked, looking between my father and brother.

“I agree. Something unusual. Something that reflects not only where he came from, but what we hope for him to be,” my father replied.

And then my parents’ eyes met. Simultaneously, they said, “Let’s call him Zeus!”

Sigh. Like I said, I wasn’t there, but I’m willing to bet that this comes close to the truth. Three years later, blond haired, blue eyed Zeus Walker was joined by me, myself, and I. Dark hair, unavoidable blue eyes, and a bitterness no psychiatrist could ever cure, I--Pandora Walker--arrived on the scene. Although I have no memory of my birth, my brother always laughs when he tells me that the scene of my naming comes close to what I describe his as. Of course, he was only a toddler, how much could he possibly remember?

Four years after my birth, my parents bought a bigger house and decorated it in a--come on, you know this one--Grecian theme. The source of their raise in income? Both had attended nightly courses to attain a Masters degree in their fields and were soon offered better jobs by the college they had graduated from.

The house in which we live in to this day is quite nice, actually. Two stories, a basement, an attic, big kitchen, big living room, two bathrooms, and four bedrooms fill it. For three years, the extra bedroom served us as a family room. Then, in the third year, my mother gave birth to the third and final child in the Weird Walker family. A blue eyed, blonde haired baby girl, my sister, Hera. Now, I was actually there for her naming, and it is extremely close to what I imagined my brother’s was like. Do I know my parents or what?

In a wider view, I have no complaints about my homelife. My parents--despite their more obvious faults--are kind, generous, and fair people. My siblings and I get along fine. However, my school life is, in a word, hell. I have a couple of good friends--Sara MacToin and Dave Davis--but as for the rest of my classmates…

Early on, my biggest problem was my teachers raising an eyebrow every time my name was called and my classmates mispronouncing it. Then came the bane of every young person’s existence--high school. We studied Greek mythology in literature. Oh boy. I was the target of many jokes, and God forbid if anyone saw me carrying anything that resembled a box. Honestly, I don’t know how my brother survived it. Maybe it had something to do with him being on the football team, and me being on the math squad.

Yes, yes, I am a geek too, and I admit it. However, I’m not going to name my children Calculus and Algebra, now am I?

My brother fell--however--into the dark pit that is our parents’ legacy. He graduated high school and headed straight off to college. His chosen major? Education, focusing on both Greek mythology and ancient history. Why?! Why, good Lord? And so young…

As for myself, I have only one year of high school left. I began my senior year two weeks ago. I plan to go straight to college too, even major in education. However, mine is math related. In relation to my sister, her true colors have yet to be seen.

But after my long origin story, only one real question remains. Do my parents feel any sort of remorse for what they’ve done? Not one damn bit. They’re proud of us and our names.

And the blame and resentment grows.