Name dropping

The subtle art of becoming who you are.

Elizabeth, Elspeth, Betsy and Bess,
They all went together to seek a bird's nest.
They found a bird's nest with five eggs in,
They all took one, and left four in.
~Nursery rhyme

Until I was in my late 20s, when I met a man who wasn’t much of a follower, I was called Betsy, one of many diminutives of Elizabeth, my given name. Both were assigned by my parents when I was born. Childhood brought additional pet names, like Bets’, a friendly version of the already shortened form, and Lil’bit, my father’s special term of endearment, which I loved.

I met and married my beloved in the blink of an eye, and while I don’t recall at exactly what point the question was asked, given the pace of things, it had to have happened within the first few minutes of our acquaintance.

Not that question. That one I remember clearly. We’d been together for a whole month before the M-word came up, and, to be honest, it was more of a floated idea than an actual request.

Anyway, the question I’m referring to here is the one when he asked my real name.

“Elizabeth,” I answered.

“Elizabeth,” he repeated. “I like that. I think I’d like to call you that.”

And, he did. Though he barely knew me, and despite everyone else, including me, carrying on with Betsy, he gravitated toward the accredited version of me, the designation on my official paperwork.

Not long after all that got going, we made plans to share vows, and rings, and last names. Rolling these concepts around in my head and off my tongue, it occurred to me that Betsy Beggins sounded like the lovechild of Mary Poppins and Bilbo Baggins, so cute it practically shot rainbows out of its umbrella.

Elizabeth, though, had heft. It felt like just what was needed to settle my soon-to-be, spunky, Irish surname.

Changing a first name is tricky. For starters, it’s the one everyone uses, so it comes with an engrained attachment. Even when its owner is determined—like my friend who, in third grade, legally changed her name from Sheila (or was it Shirley?) to Shelley—it can be hard to quit cold turkey.  To honor her Jewish culture, Shelley held onto the original first letters of her name, but she later wished she’d been bolder.

“Shelley?!” she lamented. “I could have had any name I wanted, and I went with Shelley!”

Recently espoused, I was ready to give it a go. We moved to New York, and I decided to take my moth-balled name out for a spin in the new neighborhood, where I was met with two different crowds.

First came the traditionalists. Unimpressed by its potential greatness, the elegant lines, the solid transmission, they wondered what I’d done with the old name. That one was reliable, they seemed to say, and they liked how they recognized it when they passed me on the road. Good value, less work, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.

I couldn’t fault them. I remembered tripping over my own habit when Roy became Dallas, Meg became Carter, Jean became Amina. This wasn’t just a wax job or a few squirts of Armor All on the tires, like Jimmy to Jim, or Robin to Rob. This was a whole new ride.

This group also included people from the past. In the absence of frequent interactions, which allowed for a level of practice-makes-perfect, there was forgetfulness, and awkwardness, and stubbornness. There was a tendency, whether they knew it or not, for their eyes to suggest that we just skip this part and carry on with business as usual. I’d been answering to Betsy for decades. What harm could one more day bring?

Mostly, I let it go. It wasn’t worth the squirm. I shrugged, and smiled, and noticed their shoulders relaxing. There was always next time.

The second crowd, however, was more apt to incite pushback. I’ll call them the revisionists, which is nicer than cheeky, presumptuous nitwits. These are the folks who, upon meeting me as Elizabeth, took liberties without permission. They called me Liz. They abbreviated my name right from the start, before they’d put in the mileage, before they’d earned the privilege, or asked the questions, before they really knew me.

This contingent is why the New York experiment failed. Though it was more than 30 years ago, I still remember the female bank employee who pruned my name before proceeding with the checking account I’d come there to open. In my estimation, we shouldn’t have been on a first name basis, let alone “Liz.”

It’s wasn’t just the Yankees, though. It also happened in Maryland, where, in case you’ve forgotten your history, we are below the Mason-Dixon line. But, at that point, I’d grown a little more spine. Living in New York will do that for you.

I learned to stake a claim, albeit a gentle one. Offering a brief synopsis of my name-journey thus far, I explained that I preferred Elizabeth, but if they couldn’t pull that off, to go with Betsy. Some seemed to understand that I didn’t need yet another nickname. Some lost interest before I got that far.

I made progress. Little by little, the change came. Except when it didn’t.

Last week, my actual car (not the metaphorical one I’ve been cruising in between these lines) needed some unexpected repairs. There was a lot of back and forth between the automotive shop receptionist and me about the diagnoses, the costs, and the timeline.

Repeatedly, I answered her calls: “Hello, this is Elizabeth.”

Repeatedly, she replied, “Oh, hey, Miss Liz.” (In this part of Maryland, it’s common for a first name to be preceded by a colloquial Miss or Mister.)

I have to take a beat here, because I’m betting there’s a cadre of folks reading right now who aren’t sure how to feel about all this. Some may be having a game-changing name moment. Some may decide, on the spot, that they don’t use either name often enough to merit an overhaul. Some, like my brother, Don, may dig in with indignance, because they can’t get used to Elizabeth, and why would I even make them try?

Identity is interesting, isn’t it? There is so much more to us than what we are called, our stories much more complex than the labels we are given, or choose. Now that my longer name has found purchase, the shorter moniker catches me by surprise, like looking at an old snapshot. It’s not that I don’t recognize myself in it. It’s just that the picture didn’t continue to unfold beyond that moment.

Who are you? Does your name feel important to you? Have you ever considered changing it? Do you correct those who botch it?

Who am I? Like you, I am a composite of every name I’ve ever been called, even Liz. I’m every obstacle I’ve overcome, and every opportunity that has come my way. I am Elizabeth and Betsy. I am Lil’bit and Mom. I am writer and worker. I am sibling, friend, and partner. I am a person with hopes and hang-ups, imperfections and insights. I am a living being on a spinning chunk of matter that I share with countless other living beings, and I am happy to be alive, which means I am a fortunate soul.

My mother and I were chatting one day, when she was very old. She remarked on how, over the years, I’d shifted to using Elizabeth. She remembered that it had begun with my handsome sailor. She grew quiet for a few moments, as though thinking about something from her past.

When she spoke again, she said, “It’s a beautiful name. I rather like it. I don’t know why we didn’t just call you that all along.”

~Elizabeth

Photo by Samuel Isaac on Unsplash