Harriet Watson's "Name Game"

I bobbed around in the pool, scanning the sunburned or tanned faces, those with a paste of zinc oxide, and the ones with the fancy rubbery flowers stuck to the close fitting rubber caps. I had a hard time locating my new best seven-year-old friend. Suddenly I felt hands on my peeling shoulders and turned to face her. "Lisa!" I exclaimed with relief. She looked at me with puzzlement. "I've been calling and calling to you Jean. Didn't you hear me?" Actually, I hadn't, because I was using a pseudonym, a name I had never answered to in my life. Jean wasn't my name but I had told Lisa it was. Why? Maybe it was easier than trying to shout my unusual, uncool name over the cacophony of splashes from belly flops, the shrill whistle of the lifeguard, and the reprimands of mothers to their numerous unruly offspring. I looked at Lisa's peeling nose and puzzled face and regretted my choice to pretend to be someone I wasn't. Better to be me.

I have not regretted my name since. If one is not cool enough to appreciate it, it isn't my problem. Oh, I had my moments of envy in elementary and high school. Oh, for a name that could not be made fun of! (does such really exist?). Or to have a name so common that an initial would have to be added. In my classes, there were Michael N. and Michael J., Mary Jane and Mary Ann, Catherine with a C, Katherine with a K, and all the Mary's, Theresa's, and John's--and then there was me.

I had a boyfriend in college who was not meant to last. It was obvious by the way he avoided calling me by name. "Don't you have a nickname?" he whined and pleaded. I flatly stated, "No." (But I did have several.) I realized his penchant for pet names was a cover for his reluctance to speak my name. Unable to name me as I was, I was unable to put up with him.

My best friend had a daughter and gave her my name as a middle name. At the christening, my friend's mother said, "We're a little upset with the name." My father replied "So are we. Why doesn't she reverse those names?" My friend's mother was not amused. The little daughter has carried my name proudly (mostly) for over a dozen years.

I actually got my name from my father, and I appreciate that fact. I know my brother, who was born before me, is also grateful I got the name instead of him. I wanted to name my second child after my dad. He has a great name, and so, I think, do I. My father was very nervous. Perhaps mortified would not be too strong a word for his reaction. "Oh, no. Uh, how about ---" (He suggested several others). No, even my husband was happy with our choice. My older child liked the idea of her new sibling sharing her grandpa's name, and announced to all available ears “If our baby is a boy, we're naming him Bumpa!" (not my dad's given name, not the one we were considering, but a relief to him, considering his view of the alternative).

Halfway through my life, I finally got to have an initial after my name! I worked with a woman who shared my name. Did she like her name as much I like mine? Being born a few decades before me, she may have found the name considered less of a curiosity as she was growing up. I hope she enjoyed sharing our name as much as I did.

Last week I went to the thrift store and bought a bowling shirt that had "Myrna" embroidered on it. Why this should tickle me, I don't know. My own name would have been just as swell. The clerk looked at my check and read my name. "Oh, you don't see that name much anymore, or my name either." I couldn't resist asking, "What is your name?" "Florine." `That's beautiful!" I said, meaning it. It's a name I can appreciate.

To all the others who wear names from a bygone era, ones that make a lot of us think of Far Side cartoon characters with beehives or beer bellies, who sport these names with pride and panache, I salute you!