When I was in High School I was a Romantic. I read English Literature. The Brontes, Jane Austin. Dickens. I read poetry. I wrote poetry. I needed a pen name. Rebecca Du Bois. In effect, I did choose my name. My pen name. When I was in 11th grade.
I like my own much better.
Like Cedar, I did not much like my name. I got a name that will forever link me to the post-war baby boomer era. The Lindas, Patricias, and Carols and Nancys and Sharons and Judith-type names. One with a diminutive. Like Patty or Pammie. And a short form, too, like Pam, or Nan. I was not impressed with the versatility.
There were always 2 of us in a class with the same name.
Sooooo common. And I was unique. Whence came Rebecca DuBois. I have never, ever met another Rebecca DuBois.
Sometime along the way I learned to love my name. How and why does that happen? I like to believe that I learned to like or accept myself. Or through my accomplishments, built a unique identity so no longer needed a name to confer it.
My mother and aunt were daughters of immigrants. Both felt marked by their names which were biblical and old-fashioned. Like Sarah. Or Rachel. Or Esther. Or Miriam.
Each as a teen inserted a very American middle name. My mother inserted Terry. My Aunt dubbed herself Ann, and legally added it as her middle name. And each felt their new name made a difference in their attempts to assimilate as real and proper Americans.
I guess we all fight to not be pinned down as what we are. We want all that is possible until we accept as much as we can that who we are just might be enough.
