Yes, THAT IS My Name

And no, I’m Not A Stripper

What’s in a name? A lot, that’s what, a fucking lot.

I read a piece by Rodrigo S-C that made me think about the bane of my existence, my name. In his story, he discusses his name, the evolutions it took, and then asked about our names. Do they serve us? Do they define us? Do we identify with them? Here’s his story:

To answer him, no. No, I do not like my name. My name and I have a love-hate thing going on, even after almost 51 years.

Let’s start with love, shall we? As an infant, my parents’ lawyer asked what they were going to do about my name. You see, I was adopted. My biological mother died under odd circumstances, at the age of 26 when I was 3 weeks old. My father wasn’t prepared to care for me. So I was let out for adoption and my father's oldest brother, not wanting to let the children out of the family, agreed to adopt the baby, me.

Well, the baby had a name already. A name her mother chose. Misty. Misty Rae to be exact. And the lawyer asked a second time. My adopted mother cringed. She hated the name and wanted to change it to something of her choosing. She wanted to make this white-looking baby hers. Jennifer. A good name. A popular and pretty name in 1971.

But my father put his foot down. He refused to change the name. The baby shall carry the name her mother gave her, for good or ill, out of respect for the dear departed young beautiful mother.

Uggg! On to hate.

So, I was Misty Rae and my sister, some 15 months older, was Crystal Mae. Rae and Mae were the names of our grandmothers, Rae, on my father’s side, Mae on my mother’s But damn! Can we just start the theme song to Hee Haw already? Misty Rae and Crystal Mae? I can hear the banjoes.

I always hated my name. When I went to school, there were 17 Debbies, 7 Sherrys, 3 Leeannes, 12 Jennifers and later 8 Amandas and maybe a Bonnie a Colleen, and a Shelley. Oh and Heidi, Donna, Stephanie, Carol and fucking Rachel.

Everyone had a normal name. Except me. And even worse, they had normal middle names too. Bonnie Lou, Sherry Lynn, Debra Ann, Leanne Marie. And I was Misty Rae.

Nobody had a name like mine. It sounded stupid. Misty Pisty, that’s what they called me. And when they didn’t call me that, I was told how their dog was named Misty. Yippee, I have a dog name!

As I got older, I hated my name more and more. I began to lie about it. I told people my “real” name was Melissa. It wasn’t. It never was.

People teased me. I went to law school. I had a name that sounded more like a stripper than a lawyer. I hated it.

But I made it work. It took almost 40 years, but I made it work. Do I love it? No. Do I wish people would stop asking me if my mother named me for that Clint Eastwood movie, Play Misty For Me? Yeah, because I have no idea.

I literally have no idea, she’s dead. She’s been dead since I was 3 weeks old, I didn't get to have a conversation with her about my name.

If I had been able to talk to her, I’d have told her to give more thought about naming her children. I’d have told her to not go for the cutesy, trendy crap. It sounds all fun, doesn’t it? But it’s us kids that have to grow up under the weight of the name. It’s the Buffys, Misty’s Mercedes’ and Candys that have to face the stigma. It’s us, out there, getting law and medical degrees while people think we’re on the pole.

It’s us out there spelling our names to confused faces. Yes, Misty is actually my name, my dead mother gave it to me and no, I’m not a stripper, but at almost 51, if you wanna pay me to put my clothes back on, we can talk…