Who are we without our stories?

“It’s C - a - r - i - e. With one ‘r’.” These words are my constant companion. It’s a story that started with this guy right here. 

Legend has it that my mom let my dad fill out my birth certificate. Anyone who knows my mom probably questions the validity of this story. But from what I am told, it’s the truth. Dad didn’t know how to spell “Carrie.” And that made me Carie. 

I’ve told this story to friends and employers and dozens of baristas. I’m sure the guy who helped me fill out my Blockbuster Video membership still remembers me, considering I made a big deal out of his use of two Rs. I’m still not sure if my brother knows the correct spelling of my name. (Behounek men, am-i-right?)

Today’s my dad’s birthday. I texted him this morning. He’s filed not under “dad” but under “Nato Beho.” Because one of my favorite stories about him is from his college years, regarding his atrocious penmanship (a trait we share) and another quality we share: a last name that most people won’t try to pronounce. 

It got me thinking today about this: Who are we without our stories? They are fundamental to our experience as humans. The stories we’re told, the stories we tell ourselves, the stories we tell others. The sum of our human experience. The stories we tell run the gamut of truth. They entertain us. They ground us. They connect us to those we love and those we do not know. They can also mislead us, deceive us, hurt us. And others. It reminds me that we must be mindful of the stories we tell.

I’m bummed I don’t get to share some Bud Lights with my dad today and wax philosophically about the nature of stories – or whatever random esoteric thoughts pop into our atypical brains. So for now I’ll say cheers from afar and wish the man who is quite literally my origin story a very happy birthday. Thanks for making me part of your story.