This is no end in itself. It may only be an exercise. It might start something of value. It might not. Respect for my voice means little to me. Only the jot or mote of change that afflicts the eye of dictators, bigots, the superstitious.
Excepting the unchallenged, unimpeded greed of the Ruling Class in 19th Century Britain, I’d have been born and raised as Eideard M’or. Since my father’s death, as the eldest of the eldest men, I’d be the Campbell. But, only in the patriarchal tradition.
I’m using Eideard, my ancient name, for this blog. When my great-great-grandfather, Black Duncan, his wife and children, Annie Morrison, Roderick, Duncan and Innocence, came to this continent, only the head of clan or sept was called by the family name. Black Duncan was “The Campbell” back on the Isle of South Uist. Otherwise, he was Duncan na Banh.
We came here in the hold of a slave ship. Not being a profitable cargo like slaves, we were not treated “as well”. Of the 1600 or so, taken from our island home in the summer of 1851, fewer than half were alive for the next summer solstice.
I would be Eideard M’or.