I don’t know about you, but I have collected numerous names in my life-time. I’m not talking “role names” like daughter, sister, friend, or an intimate name one is given by one’s lover, or names like Mom, Nana, etc. I am talking about the routine use of a name to which I was referred to at various times in my evolution from birth to octogenarian by friends and extended family.
In the beginning, I was given the name Marcia Ann at birth and Baptism. Later on, the Confirmation name of Cecelia was added. To members of my immediate family and to all my teachers throughout my life, I have always been called Marcia (pronounced Mar’-sha.) Sometimes, in complete exasperation, my mother would say Marcia Ann, which usually meant trouble for yours truly. In my school years, I was simply Marsh to my classmates until high school. Somewhere, someone tagged me with the nomenclature of “Mighty Mo” which quickly was shortened to just Mo. Today, those friends who remain from that era, still call me by that name and I am Aunt Mo to all my nieces, nephews and their offspring.
When I went off to study nursing, there was a girl at Freshman Camp whose name was Maureen. She immediately claimed the name Mo—a known nickname for her given name— as her preferred address. (A side note: we gave the name Maureen to one of our daughters, and she is addressed as Mo by her siblings and a few close friends.) Anyway, having two Mo’s in the same class rooms seemed silly, so I deferred and went back to Marsh. That was short lived and abruptly changed when we began the course on endocrinology. (Warning, the following is very non PC and reflects a warped sense of humor I shared with my fellow student nursing apartment mates.) As we learned the pathology of some diseases associated with the endocrine system, I jokingly said something to my four suite mates to the affect that given my rather short stature, thin hair, and low weight, perhaps I was a cretin. Oh boy, was that ever a gigantic mistake! I immediately was called Creta and Creta I remained to that select group of life-long friends. My senior year mug even has my alma mater logo on one side, and Creta emblazoned on the other side. Alas, only one of those friends is still living, but she keeps the name alive.
The next name, and the one I am known as today, has absolutely no rhyme or reason for being. Shortly after meeting my beloved, he simply began calling me Marty and that was it—it became permanent. Anyone who has met me in the past sixty-five years rarely knows my given name or previous aliases. ( Along the way I had a dear friend who called me Flora Friend, whom I referred to in kind, as Dora- Do- Gooder. In later years we found Twit One and Twit Two more appropriate for our shenanigans!) Oddly, only my physicians, lawyer and a couple of long time friends regularly call me Marcia. When I moved to my current abode, the monthly roster has me listed with my legal name of Marcia and it does take awhile for many to connect the verbal Marty with the listed name.
I rarely used preprinted names on personal stationery and Christmas cards, as I always signed my correspondence using the name that people from my past called me. I do wonder if others have different names from their past.
Oh well, it’s way too late in my life to ponder whether there’s some deep psychological meaning behind it all or whether I secretly had multiple personalities silently lurking about, or whether I just went with the flow.
What’s in a name? Didn’t Shakespeare write:
…That which we call a Rose, by any other word would smell as sweet…
I answer to many names—I’m not about to argue with the great Bard.
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