Wait. No I didn't.

No cultural luminary has ever had the middle name Angus. Small wonder: It's a name that smacks of ridicule, not respect. Its origins are hazy: From my best guess, the first trace emerged with my paternal great-great-grandfather. Making its way down the bloodline via the firstborn males, it remained dormant with my grandmother until she had a son -- my father -- and passed it on to him. He lived with it, coped with it as the men before him had and, in turn, inevitably transmitted it to me.

A congenital defect, trickling malevolently down the branches of my family tree? No -- but as a birthright, just as unavoidable and no less cursed. It was Angus, the traditional Scottish name borne by each of my forefathers and represented by his middle initial. Now it was mine. And of course, I hated it with every breath I drew.

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