I notice an interesting trait in my family. We bear name problems. Take my mother’s, “Willie Jo.” She hates being called Willie and uses her middle name, leading to further confusion. “Jo Seay” is interpreted as “Josie.” To prevent me from suffering her fate she doesn’t use a family name first on my birth certificate. A woman as exotic and sexy as Rhonda Fleming, the beautiful actress of the forties and fifties, must have a name to outlive her fame. So, Mother writes Rhonda Kathleen Seay on my birth record. (The middle one is for my grandmother, Jessie Kathleen Dodson Sanford, a sturdy faithful Christian woman.)
“Rhonda” fits me like a wrong-sized wetsuit worn backwards.
Oh, I answer to it for sure. Sometimes, people call me “Ron,” or “Ronnie,” and I answer to that too, with no more love for those shortened editions. I never thought names changeable. Unlike my mother, I do not go by my middle name. . . for a long, long time.
Enter the birth of my son. I want a family name: Bradley for my father’s uncle and my brother’s first name. (Speaking of following the pattern, my brother is Bradley Andrew and he is called Andrew.) My husband and I both want an Alex. Alexander Bradley does not sound quite as good as Bradley Alexander. Plus, his monogram would be ABC. Bradley Alexander Cutts it is.
Since I work in my children’s school, I have the good fortune of ensuring my son’s teachers know that the “Bradley A. Cutts” on their roster, is my beloved boy, Alex. We sail along just fine until he goes to high school and I no longer have this nomenclative advantage. When his freshman teachers call, “Bradley Cutts. Should we call you Brad?” He nods a shy yes.
His old friends from town wonder, “Who is Brad Cutts?” And I don’t even know he’s become Brad until back-to-school night. “Don’t you want your teachers to know your correct name?”
“I don’t really care what they call me as long as they leave me alone.” That makes sense. So, Alex becomes Brad in the ninth grade. And here I am still listening to strangers singing, “Help me Rhonda,” when introduced.
I never felt like my name fit me quite right. And I am so tired of having to help everyone.
My husband hears me and goes into fix-it mode. “There’s no reason I have to call you that!” so Dan tries “Kathleen.”
“No. That’s my grandmother.”
“Kat?” Sounds rather feline. It’s okay, but still not quite comfortable.
“Kate.” Suddenly a name slips on like a silk dress custom made for my form.
“I like that. Kate Cutts has a nice sound. You can call me that.”
So, he does. For a while, just at home. Then he uses it more and I get used to it. One Sunday night we are at evening worship, and as I fill out our attendance card he dares me, “Write Dan and Kate Cutts.” He should know better than to dare me!
After church, here comes Miss Ellie, the church secretary waving the attendance card. I flush a little pink to explain. “Well, Dan knows I never really liked being a Rhonda, so he calls me Kate now.”
And that’s that. Miss Ellie goes into action, changes my name in all the church places; Sunday School classroom, church bulletin, directory. . . I guess that counts as before God and man?
A month or two later, I congratulate my friend Juanene for navigating my name change so successfully, but she confesses, “Your friends do call you Kate when we talk to you. But when we talk about you, you’re still Rhonda.” Oh well. I’ll enjoy what I can get.
Your Turn: Shakespeare said, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Anne of Green Gables disagreed; “I don’t believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage.” Are you fitting your name just right, or feeling like a rose called thistle?
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