As the fastest kid in my grade school class, I had already discovered the thrill of speed—the wind cutting across my face, the sound of my heart pounding against my chest. When I was in the lead, going all out, it felt like I was catching time itself, chasing the world’s turning edge.

In that realm, I discovered the eternal moment: no future, no past. Just this moment, fully expressed.

But what first drove me to become a runner was more mundane. It was my name.

*

Saint Anthony of Padua was the patron saint of Lublin, Poland, the city where Mom and Pop met and married in February 1945, in the entrails of World War II. The Church where they married, Saints Peter and Paul, was a beautiful 600-year-old edifice of Tuscan Baroque design, sitting across the street from the Artist’s Cafe, where they first met 11 days earlier.

     The church’s triangular gable atop the façade featured an inscription oculus – the Eye of God’s Providence—like found on the U.S. Dollar bill. A fresco of St. Anthony hung in the center of the high altar.

As she stood next to Pop, preparing to take her vows, Mom said a silent prayer, promising St. Anthony she would name her first son after him, if he would protect their union in this terrible time of war. 

*

In Polish, Anthony is spelled Antoni. Therefore, the diminutive is Toni, with an “i”, not a “y.” But in America, Toni with an “i” was a girl’s name. I quickly learned that having that “i” instead of a “y” made one hell of a difference in my daily existence. See, combined with my still small stature, a “girl’s name” made me a target for bullies.

Even though Pop stood 6′ 2″ in height, I had yet to reach 5-feet as a 10-year-old, which frightened me since Mom flew under the radar at 5’4″.

“Mom, come here for a second,” I said one evening as she bustled around the kitchen, setting the table for dinner.

“What’s that, dear?” she said, wiping her hands on the dish towel.

Nodding toward Pop, who sat with his legs crossed in the living room, reading the evening paper, I said, “Mom, I know he’s Pop, but we are talking about that guy, right? I mean, he is my father, isn’t he?”

She looked at her husband, then back at me.

“Toni, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Mom, look at me. I’m a runt. Am I ever going to grow? I don’t want to find out later that you had something going with some 5’6″ guy while I’m trying out for the basketball team and working on my high jump technique.”

A tiny smile creased her face. She put her hand to her mouth. Then released it into an open palm.

 “Where do you come up with these ideas? Don’t be silly. You’ll be at leat as tall as your father before you know it. Now, wash your hands before we eat.”

“OK, fine. But while we’re at it, why did you guys give me a girl’s name? It’s like piling on. It hasn’t been helpful.”

“Toni is a wonderful name. Besides, I wanted a name that would work in both cultures.”

I blinked, then stared back with a quizzical look. Does she not get it? Do I have to explain everything? But I took a deep breath instead. 

“Mom,” I said, assuming the posture of a spiritual leader. “What culture are we in? Hint: It’s not Poland. We’re in St. Louis, Missouri, where Toni with an “i” is a girl’s name. Help me out here. I’m in a full sprint half the day.”

Not sure if she ever grasped my logic. But eventually, I came to love my name. 

At that moment, running became my shield. I could outrun the kids who teased me, and in the freedom of movement, I found solace. In time, running became not just my shield, but formed my identity and revealed my passion. 

As I grew older, I realized that my name, though unusual, had given me a unique perspective. I had learned to navigate the challenges of cultural and societal expectations, while discovering a strength within myself I knew I could rely on in times of crisis.

Ive been carrying that “i” not “y” ever since, proudly. Thanks, Mom.

Never did grow as tall as Pop, but got close enough for people to leave me alone.

Oh, and if you run into him, give Saint Anthony/Antoni a nod from me. I’m sure he, like me, answers to both spellings.

END

If you would like to read the full story of my parents’ wartime romance over the span of just 11 days, you can pick it up here.

END