Me and Betty Joan Perske

I hate my name. Laura. I can barely say it properly. It feels like I have marbles in my mouth, trying to say it. Especially, on the phone. “Glenda?” the caller will ask. “Maura?” “Sharon?” …Sharon?

My mother told me my name was supposed to be Lauren, but my father changed it at the last second and wrote Laura on my birth certificate after seeing some movie (called Laura). I’ve always resented him a little bit for that. Who might I have been if my name was Lauren? Would I have a sultry, husky voice and legs that go on for miles like Lauren Bacall? Or luscious black hair and green cat eyes and boyfriends with names like Beau or Jacques like the Lauren I knew in high school? Even Ralph sounds cool when you stick Lauren after it. Who doesn’t want to be Lauren! 

Maybe girls with names like Heidi. Or Cindy or Ashley. Whenever I meet one of them I secretly think: bitch. even if they are nice as can be. How dare they have a perky name like that? As though their parents knew they would be just that much cuter than the rest of us. Unless it’s spelled weird. Like Cyndi or Ashlee. Then I think: annoying bitch. You can tell if a woman likes her name by the way she says it too. Women who don’t like their names put in an apology with a shrug of the shoulders. 

Women who do like their names lift their chin a little when they introduce themselves. People with names like Diane and Melissa and Angela. Who wouldn’t stand a little taller with a name like that? My mother-in-law actually pauses and strikes a pose when she says her name, as if to say, “See how my beautiful name suits me?”

I’ve thought about changing my name to something I like better, but I fear it may be too late. I have a friend who did that. She went from Marie to Malea and I have to admit, I like Malea better, but inevitably, I call her Marie and then I just feel awkward. Besides, what would I change it to? 

I asked my kids if they were to name me, what name would they choose. (I know, brave or stupid, not sure which.) My one daughter looked at me with an appraising eye and proclaimed: “Tula!” I thought about that one. Maybe... Kind of endearing, certainly unique. I Googled it and discovered this was the name of the “Bond girl” in the 1981 movie For Your Eyes Only. Wow. She’s hot, right? Actually, she is! The character of Tula was played by a transsexual originally named Barry Cossey, later Caroline Cossey. Smokin’ hot, famous, global supermodel and actress?... I may not be able to live up to ALL of that and put that suggestion on the shelf. When I asked my other daughter for a new name, she just rolled her eyes at me. I’m pretty sure, in her world, that’s already my name. “How do you spell that?” I asked.

My neighbor who teaches in a city school district tells me to count my blessings. “Do you know how hard it is just to get through attendance? I actually had a kid in one class whose name was spelled s-h-i-t-h-e-a-d. How do you ask a bunch of 6th graders if ‘Shithead’ is present? Turns out the kid’s parents are from some country where the “t” is silent and his name is pronounced Sha-HEED'. 

A name that’s too unusual would never work for my husband, Peter. He has trouble with names as it is. Throw in some European flare and he stumbles all over his tongue, which is surprising since he grew up around friends with names like Schuyler and Minter and Stokes. Part of the problem is that the instant a person tells him his or her name, Peter forgets it. We try to use specific techniques in social situations to help him remember. Name-trait association, repeating the name back to the person, and immediately introducing the person to a friend all help to improve name recall - to a point. 

He met a lovely couple on the beer line at an outdoor concert once. As we threaded our way through the crowd to join them on the vast lawn, he told me, “His name is Tom and her name is…well, I forget, but it was something like Big Belly.” 

He made a motion with his hand in front of his own belly, carving an arc in the air from top to bottom, indicating a large belly. “Big Belly?” I pondered that one. “Bertha?” I asked. “No, Big Belly!” he made the motion again. “But foreign-sounding.” “Beeg Be´lay?” “What is that supposed to be, French or something?” He giggled. “No, it’s like Big Belly, but not Big Belly.” He kept making the motion, faster now and more emphatically. “She doesn’t have an accent or anything. Just her name sounds foreign.” “Ok, well, that hand thing you’re doing isn’t helping. I know what a big belly is, just not what this girl’s name is,” I shot back. “Does she at least have a big belly?” “No. Shhh, they’re right here. Just do the thing we always do,” he muttered. Turning to the group, he said, “Hey, this is my wife, Laura. Honey, this is - ” 

That was my cue. I put out my hand to shake and smoothly interrupted him, saying, “Hi, what’s your name?” The woman smiled and said, “Hi! I’m Birgit.” Beer Gut?? I wanted to laugh, but I suddenly remembered an acquaintance of Peter’s, nicknamed “Grinder.” I repeatedly called him “Hoagie”. Sometimes the obvious eludes us. 

A few minutes later Birgit turned to me and said, “I’m sorry, what were your names again?” I lifted my chin a little. “I’m Tula.”
And pointing at Peter, I said, “And that’s Sha-heed´.”