North Star Writers Group

I learned last week where my lifelong identity crisis came from, and it’s now safe to say that I am not alone. For this, I thank the newest Counter Terrorism Unit agent on Fox TV’s “24.” That’s right. Agent Mike Doyle – played by the one and only Ricky Schroder – has managed to save me again.

You see, Ricky and I go way back. To me, he was known as “The Ricker” from his “Silver Spoons” days when I first became a fan. Ricky’s long been a hero in my book. As a pre-pre-teen, I was prone to nightmares. But I’d always wake up to the Ricker staring down at me.

It was one of his many Tiger Beat posters – affixed ever so carefully with rubber glue to my ceiling.

On “Silver Spoons,” Ricky used to ride a toy train in his living room. Little did I know he was headed down the same identity crisis track as I was.

As a young child, he wanted to be called The Ricker. I wanted to be called Kristi. Why? I don’t know. I guess I thought it was much cooler than my real name (Cindy). I’d already given four of my dolls the Kristi moniker, and was quite pleased with myself when I wrote an official statement to my parents that they must call me Kristi from now on.

I even filled out my Reading Is Fundamental stickers from the elementary school library – the ones that said “This book belongs to…” – with Kristi. I was loving my new name until one day my mom, ever the wise, said, “But you have a cousin named Kristi. Don’t you want to be unique?”

Foiled! I went back to the drawing board, well actually, the diary paper and Crayola; where in formal agreement fashion, I crossed out Kristi in black, and replaced it with Emily.

My parents actually went along with this, until one night when I got in trouble. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but I do remember that “Joanie Loves Chachi” was my favorite television show. As my mom yelled at me, she did what she always did when I was in trouble. She ended her rant with a firm, “Miss Cynthia!”

I shouted back, “No, Mom! That is Mrs. Baio to you!”

How she and my father refrained from going into bouts of hysterical laughter right there in front of me, I will never know. They called me Mrs. Baio until I got married for real four years ago.

Oh, the naming crisis didn’t end there. I distinctly remember, at around the age of 12, deciding that Olivia Newton John was the coolest woman on the planet. And as I was staring at her poster one day, pulling my legwarmers and leotard on to get ready for Jazzercise class, I decided to take my grandmother’s maiden name and add it to my last name.

I began writing my name as Cindy Heys Allen. I was now as cool as Olivia, to be sure.

Then came junior high. There were a few other Cindys there, so I started spelling my name on everything – schoolwork, notebooks, my own diary – as Cyndi. Because of course, a girl named Cyndi is surely cooler than a girl named just plain Cindy.

In college, my roommates and I decided we needed code names, so we could talk about our lives while walking down the street, or sitting too close to other people in the cafeteria. Our little club of Lulu, Gertrude and Emma surely fooled a lot of folks.

Eventually, I grew out of all this stuff, just like Mr. Schroder did. He’s settled on Ricky. I’m glad. Because I’ve settled on Cindy. And just like he’s not going for the assuredly more grown up “Rick” or “Richard,” I do not go by Cynthia.

Ricky’s happy. I’m happy. He’s out saving Los Angeles. And I’ve moved on, too. The secret photo I keep of Keifer Sutherland – aka Jack Bauer – in my desk drawer at work proves it.

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