A little z

Poor Little Z. He always found himself in situations of having to explain his name. People always got it wrong, whether he was signing up for soccer, or at the Doctor’s office for a checkup, they would say it wrong or spell it wrong.  He would sigh inside and use the same words every time to correct them. It made him feel like a parrot.

 

It was especially bad at school when there was a substitute teacher. She would call out for “Little Zee” and he would have to explain that his name wasn’t Zee.

 

“My name is Zed,” he’d say.

“But it looks like Zee, “she would say.

“I know,” he would sympathize, “but it really is Zed.”

“It ought to rhyme with C and D, and T and V,” she’d insist.

“The rules about rhyming must be different where I come from.” said Little Z sadly.

“Rules are different for me, too” piped in Little U.

“Nobody ever hears me when I’m up front,” a shy K said for the second time.

“People always think I’m you,” grumbled C, “they put us together all the time.”

“I don’t get to do anything.” This from poor old Q who often was without a partner for cooperative activities.

“Now class!” said teacher, clapping her hands together to remind them all where they were and who she was. “It’s time for gym. I’ll just ask Little Zee to show us the way…”

 

Poor Little Z just sighed inside and moved to the front of the line.