NAMES

Do you like your name?  Our pastor asked this question a few weeks ago.  This prompted some discussion and reflection about the names in our family.

I did not realize that my name was unusual until I was in elementary school.  My mother, Ethel, was the only one in the family whose name was not “a little different.”  Dad was Rankin as was his maternal grandfather.  My brother was Carroll, which was often used for boys in my Dad’s family.  I often heard the explanation, “That is spelled with two r’s and two l’s.”  I did not realize until I was older that was to differentiate from the female spelling, Carol.  My sister was Vaudine.  I have no idea how my parents came up with that one.  One would think that when I surprised them later that they would have chosen something ordinary. I was told that my uncle Charles believed that he would never have a little girl and suggested the name.  I never verified this.  It didn’t matter.   My name was just who I was, and that was O.K.

My uncle did eventually have a daughter.  Her name was Theresa Lu.  I thought it was a beautiful name.  There were a few times when I wished that I could change names with her.  By that time, I had realized that my name called for explanations.  When I told an adult my name, the inevitable question was, “How do you spell that?”  The question when someone saw it written was, “How do you pronounce that.”  I have grown accustomed to saying, “I will spell that for you,” or “that is a c, not an e.”

When I was in high school, I was in the band.  I was surprised to meet another Charlcy.  However, she spelled her name Charlsie.  This was a more logical spelling.

The spelling of my name has been “corrected” to Charley more times than I can count.  Just this week I got some junk mail addressed to Mr. Charley Standifer.  The ultimate correction came when a zealous clerk in Cameron County changed my Texas voter registration card to Charles and did a sex change.  I was more than a little upset about that one and went in person to get it straightened out.

The Pioneer Man has never liked his first name which is Floyd.  He was always called Kenneth by his family.  Through the years, our friends shortened it to Ken, and I eventually did likewise.

When I asked him why he didn’t like Floyd, he gave a profound answer, “I don’t know.”  After some thought, he said, “Probably it is because the only time I ever heard it was when Mother said, Floyd Kenneth.  That meant I was in big, big trouble.”

I almost got him in big trouble because of his first name.  When he was serving his mandatory time for Uncle Sam at Fort Gordon, Georgia, his unit was on alert one weekend.  He went to wash our car and told me to call him immediately if he got a phone call.

He got a call. He heard the phone ring and came bounding up the stairs to our garage apartment just in time to hear me tell the caller, “There is no Floyd here.”  Fortunately, he yanked the phone from me and answered before the caller hung up.

Two of my male cousins were also called by their middle names.  Neither liked their middle name.  The Army practice of using first names allowed them to begin using their first names.  Old habits die hard, and it was probably twenty or thirty years before all of the family finally began calling them by their first names.

When I asked my children if they liked their names, I got puzzled pauses before they answered.  I had the feeling that they were thinking their mom was getting senile.  Fortunately, they have no problems with their names as there is nothing they can do about it at this point in time.

I long ago learned to accept and like the uniqueness of my name.  Just as when I was a child, it is my identity.  It is who I am.  I believe that it is necessary that we accept and love ourselves.  Our name is part of the package.  It is the first step in loving others as we love ourselves.