The Last Lecture

The Last Lecture
30
Raising the White Flag
M Y MOTHER always calls me “Randolph.”
She was raised on a small dairy farm in Virginia during the
Depression, wondering if there’d be enough food for dinner. She
picked “Randolph” because it felt like the name some classy Virginian
might have. And that may be why I rejected it and abhorred it. Who
wants a name like that?
And yet my mother kept at it. As a teen, I confronted her. “Do
you really believe your right to name me supersedes my right to have my
own identity?”
“Yes, Randolph, I do,” she said.
Well, at least we knew where we stood!
By the time I got to college, I had had enough. She’d send me mail
addressed to “Randolph Pausch.” I’d scrawl “no such person at this
address” on the envelope, and send the letters back unopened.
In a great act of compromise, my mom began addressing letters
to “R. Pausch.” Those, I’d open. But then, when we’d talk on the
phone, she’d revert back to old form. “Randolph, did you get our
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