When my mother was pregnant with me, she was certain that I was a boy. She
wanted a boy. She only picked out a name for a boy, Brian. What she got was me. Girl. Not Brian.
My mom had no name for a girl. She wanted to name me Megan, after a character in a book she had read. My dad would not have it, because he swore people would tease me and call me "Megan the Pagan." Um...really? Did he really think kids would say that? Doubtful.
He wanted to name me Mary Helen, after my aunt and my grandmother, his mother. My mom refused, stating that a name like Mary Helen screamed "Nun!" I have to agree with her. Mary is fine on it's own. Helen is OK. But together? Why bother to tell people I'm Catholic. They could figure it out from my moniker!
I went for something like a week as "Baby Anderson." Nameless. Isn't that a sweet part of this story! Somehow they eventually came to an agreement. If my father wanted to name me after his mother, so be it, but it would not be her first name. I would take her maiden name as my first name. If I would carry his mother's name, then I would also carry her mother's maiden name. So it came to be that I would be called Koelle Griffith Anderson. What a hefty name for an infant!
Those of you who know me well will probably be surprised to hear that as a young child, and even into my teens, I was painfully shy. I wanted to be anywhere
but the center of attention. In fact, I purposefully tried to blend into the background as much as possible. I know, shocking right? I certainly make myself heard now, but I wasn't always that way.
As a child, my name was a constant source of attention. No teacher ever said it right on the first day of class. No doctor's office staff said it right. No one said it right period. No one. So I spent my life correcting people, explaining the origins, and listening to the chuckles of my classmates. Forget about finding a key chain in a gift shop with my name on it! What child doesn't want a personalized pencil? None for me! Then, on top of my first name, I found my middle name, Griffith, to be particularly ugly. Griffith? That's not a name for a girl! In my mind, it added insult to injury. Why couldn't I have a pretty, normal, flowing name like Anne Marie?
After years of protesting, my poor mother either decided that she just couldn't take my whining any more, or truly felt sorry for me. When I was 9, she paid for me to legally change my middle name. I remember sitting with her in the breezeway at my grandparents house talking about what name I would pick - Renee? Marie? Lou? No, I chose Nicole. So, somewhere around the middle of my 9th year, I became Koelle Nicole. I was satisfied, well, partially satisfied anyway.
25 years later, I feel differently about my name. I no longer become embarrassed by mispronunciations. Many times I don't bother to correct people. Unless it is for some legal document or a doctor's office, or it's someone with whom I will be having a long relationship with, I generally just answer to whatever they say. I don't go into the country of origin unless someone specifically asks. (It's German, if you are wondering. In fact, it's the name of the dialect spoken in Cologne, where I studied abroad my sophomore year of college!) When I go to functions that require name tags, I write "Kelly" on the tag. It's just easier, and frankly, I've given the explanation of where my name came from too many times to count.
That may sound like resignation, and in some ways it is, but I also want clarify this: I love my first name. As much confusion as it draws, it is unique. It's my first name. I'm willing to bet there aren't many Kellies with an "O" out there! Not only is it mine, it's my grandmother's. Over the years, I have come to cherish the fact that I carry her name with me. I am no longer ashamed of my difference. I am proud of it.
What I am not proud of, is the fact that I changed my middle name. I still feel that Griffith is not a very pretty name for a girl, but that name, just like my first, belonged to my other grandmother. I wish now that I had never disowned it, because I know it would have eventually grown on me too. I have thought about changing my middle name back to Griffith. Perhaps one of these days I will.
When my own children were born, they were given normal names with normal spellings. No embarrassment, no confusion, no explanations. Both of their names have meaning, they were each named after my dad and their own fathers, respectively. They know the stories of their names, but they won't be plagued by commentary from birth til death. It's good to learn from other's mistakes!
When my sister was born, my mother named her Megan Elizabeth, and then she left our biological father for good. I think mom learned from her mistake as well, on many levels!
Maybe he just wanted to help me clean...or maybe the lure of a freshly scrubbed commode was just too appealing to resist. The scent of Clorox implored him to take a dip. Who knows?
Don't fret, I was able to save him. After a nice bath and some counseling, he was OK.
