DanMargarita.com

Growing up in a middle-class, white suburban neighborhood made it a difficult to be a little bit unique. Kids would tease anyone who was the least bit different. If one had big ears, buck teeth or was obese he or she was almost certain to be the victim of constant abuse. I didn't have any physical characteristics that made me stand out, but you'll still take a good ribbing when your name is John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.

I guess my parents are mainly to blame, although their German heritage is merely an accident of birth and not a conscious choice. My father was Adolf Jingleheimer, of the Dussledorf Jingleheimers. It was during an Oktoberfest afternoon that he met my mother, Greta Schmidt and the two of them immediately fell in love that afternoon (after several steins of lager).

They soon married and being a liberal, Bohemian couple, decided to keep both of their names. That wasn't a problem while living in a German neighborhood where they were neighbors with families like Hans and Eva Lipshitz, not to mention the family that no one could stand, the Shickelgrubers.

After the war (World War II, that is), like so many German scientists, my father emigrated to the United States. What the U.S. Government didn't realize was that my father's specialty was not in munitions but food coloring.

We packed up our belongings and the family dog, Bingo was his name-o, and headed to America. We found a house in a suburb of Detroit and my father got a job with General Motors designing crash test dummies (somebody's got to do it).

Elementary school was hell. I had to survive the constant taunts.

"Hey, Jingle balls!" not to mention some that I can't repeat.

Roll call from substitute teachers always drew some giggles when they got to "Jingleheimer Schmidt, John J."

High school was no picnic, either. I hung out with the freaks, geeks and other outcasts. The only highlight of my high school days was my senior prom. Looking back at the photo now, I chuckle seeing that my hair was almost as long as my date, Rapunzel's.

My grades were pretty good and my father's connections helped me get into Yale, although it was never made clear to me why I was denied entrance into the Skull and Bones Society.

I have worked a number of jobs and moved about the country. No matter where I lived I always ran into the same problem. Whenever I go out, the people always shout "There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt!"

As if that isn't bad enough, for some reason they always feel compelled to follow that up with "Da-da-da-da-da-da-da."

Fortunately, the more they do it, the softer it seems to get.

The problems started for real about a year ago. I noticed charges showing up on my credit card bill. Somebody had been charging things to my account such as dinners, flowers and a jet ski.

I contacted the authorities and they opened an investigation that soon led them to a neighbor of mine named Joseph Schmoe.

It seems that Mr. Schmoe had concocted the idea of assuming my identity after constantly hearing my neighbors yell my name. That alone might not have caused me a problem but when one wise-guy decided to add to the song by yelling out my social security number, Mr. Schmoe had all he needed to go on his spending spree.

After much legal hassle my credit has finally been restored and Mr. Schmoe is doing time in prison.

Thank God I found a good lawyer in the person of Mr. Rumple Stiltskin.