Xenophobe; a person who fears foreigners and strange customs.
I consider myself a xenophobe. I am not afraid of people foreign to this country per se, really more just from other planets.
What I am actually afraid of is the portrayal of space aliens in the media. Big head and eyes all veiny and pale with long Joe Peterson fingers and crap like that. Terrified. That is me. Cowering in front of the television hands plastered over my eyes, venturing the occasional peek to see if the horror is gone.
I wilfully misunderstand the meaning of the word because I like the word and want to use it.
Xantha was always my favorite girl name. I would still like to use it someday.
If someone had told me 10 years ago that my first child would be a girl and I would not name her Xantha Belle I would not have believed it. I would have called you a liar.
Even seven years ago I wouldn’t have believed it. It wasn’t until after I was married and had a relationship with Husband’s Grandma (who I named Baby Girl for) did I start to venture from the cherished “Xantha”.
Now I expect to be acquiring another daughter fairly soon and yet again, Xantha is losing out. There are a couple of reasons. One is that baby Girl and Tiny Boy both have very strong family names. I don’t want the next child to wonder someday if we didn’t give her (or him) a family name because she was adopted and so not really a part of our family.
Also because Xantha means fair/golden, and I am expecting a brown baby. A brown child could certainly be golden but not so much fair. Unless I chose to wilfully misunderstand that in this instance “fair” means a light complexion not beautiful. If I take fair to mean beautiful and golden to mean golden-brown then we are in business. But I don’t. It rubs me the wrong way to completely disregard the meaning of a name even if it ruins my last chance of having a Xantha.
Xenophobe is just a fun word I want to use. Xantha is beloved. I can’t subject the latter to the abuse I give the former.