Not that today's topic is fluffy. No, it's about what you're called and what you were named. Were you called one name when you were four and a different name when you were twelve? nineteen? thirty? Or have you been one name all along. What about nicknames? Did you get a say in what nicknames were used for you, or were they assigned? There's a story there, waiting to be told.
Many of us were named for someone, then living or deceased. Has that been a source of pride, discomfort or nothing in particular? Have you ever made up a new name for yourself? Do tell.
My parents were born in 1920 and 1921. They were married straight out of college (having been sweethearts from the first month of freshman year) in 1942. Before my dad was shipped overseas to fight the good fight in Western Europe, they started having children. First born arrived in August, 1944, when my father was already on the battlefront. They named him after my dad's father Charles Alexander Capron (Lex), using my mom's father's last name as Alexander Morgan Capron's (first Sandy, then Alex) middle name. On the first day of first grade, Sandy is said to have come home and announced to his parents and three-year-old sister that there were three Sandy's in his class and the other two were girls! From that day forward, he would only respond to Alex. Period.
Second born was my darling sister, named not for her mother Margaret, but for her grandmother on her father's side Margaret. My grandmother was Marge, my mom was Peg, and my sister has always been Margie.
Again after a three year gap, along I came. There was a certain inevitability with what I got, as it wouldn't do to name the first two children after the groom's parents and then go all new age with the third. So no, I was not named Bear. Sometimes (especially with strangers I'll never see again) I just lie and say when I get the common question about, "That surely isn't your real name is it?" that yes, my parents were far out and named me Bear. Actually my kid brother named me Bear when he was three and I was five. My passport reads Bear Capron, but my birth certificate says Barry Lincoln Capron. My mom's father was Barry Lincoln Morgan. Bear is an affectionate shortening of Barry that stuck, at least in my heart.
[Sidebar: Yes, I am somehow related to Abe and though I'm proud of that heritage, I stopped using my middle name some years ago.]
Through primary and secondary school, most people called me Barry. Good name. It wasn't till I hit full-blown puberty when all those questions around identity start to arise that I began to feel somewhat constricted and even felt shamed about my name. In Junior High that name song was the rage. They take a name and sing "Betty Betty fo Fetty, mi my mo Metty, Betty!" So here I am this new kid in town (as we moved from Palo Alto to Chevy Chase, Maryland between my sixth and seventh grades), precociously already knowing I'm gay --- without having that happy word yet available to me --- hearing the kids, well, especially the other boys, crack up with "Barry Barry fo Fairy, mi my mo Mary, Barry!" I knew the original Barry, my Graddy, and liked him. But I knew in my little gay heart that I was not destined to be a Barry. And teenaged boys smell the fear and take glee in making that fear grow. One reason I learned to be a good actor.
As with many of my dear readers, going off to college meant an opportunity to reinvent my identity. Or at least, that's what it felt like back then. I didn't look like a bear of a guy (no barrel chest, furry face, or large belly), but for me being Bear meant being Seth's Bear or A.A.Milne's Pooh Bear or some other unique person I was (as we all are) destined to become. So I have been Bear for 46 years now.
I cannot finish without telling you about the fourth Capron child. A tad unexpectedly, this brown-eyed, dark-haired baby joined our family... and there was some suspense about what baby's gender would be. You see, my mother's mother was called Betty, but was named Irene. My folks knew that if they had a girl, it would be pretty hard to wriggle out of naming her Irene as well and.... let's say that Irene was not a lovely little girl's name in the early 1950's. Whew. A boy! And my parents' first opportunity to make up a name! Yipee! I've always loved my younger brother's name, Seth. Strong, honest, more than a little Old Testamenty. Seth Thompson (yaaa! Nana's surname made it in!) Capron.
My opinion is this, parents to be. Let the forebearers' names to them. And save the fun, whacky, creative names for your pets and homes and cars. But above all, honor your children's preferences and choices when and if they decide to change their name. And if they do, practice, practice, practice.
Do you have a name story? Betcha do.