Who are you?

I have some friends who are expecting a baby.  They haven't found out yet if it's a boy or a girl, though they'll know in a few weeks if the baby's cooperative during the ultrasound.  They've been back and forth about what to name the baby.  Mom is convinced is a girl.  (They have a boy name as a contingency plan.) 

Mom wants something beautiful and unique.  Dad wants to call her Yoshimi, regardless of her given name.  I suggested Alice, but I don't think it's happening.  Children of the 70's have both the Brady Bunch and Linda Lavin to thank for screwing that one up.

 

My name, Stephanie, is from the Greek Stephen and means something like "crown" or "crowned with glory".  It's a reference to the Biblical Stephen, who is considered to be the first martyr of the Christian Church.  (Wow, now that I think about it, that whole martyrdom thing could explain a lot about me....)

I wasn't named after Stephen, though.  My mom always told me I was named after  Stefanie Powers, though note the spelling difference.  I was excited when I was about eight to learn that Stevie Nicks was also a Stephanie, seeing as how I'd been spoon-fed Fleetwood Mac since birth.  (Later I would throw her over entirely for Lindsay Buckingham, but that's another blog post.)  I didn't know any other Stephanies while I was growing up, just like I didn't know anyone else with a last name beginning with 'Q' until I was in junior high, and I was back to being the only Q in the school records, ever,  when I got to high school. 

I will answer to 'Steph' or 'Stephanie', though 'Stessie' was acceptable from my cousins when they were little.  I've been known to respond to 'hey you', 'bitch, 'girlie, 'baby, 'honey', 'sweetie', or even 'dollface'-- but only if you're the one person in the world who is allowed to call me that.  (If you're unsure, it's not you.  Don't even try, because I will kick you.)  If you're so brave as to try to call me 'Stephie', you'd better be able to run.  Many have tried, but only two have succeeded.  In a good mood, I'll ignore your attempts to use the uppity moniker.  If I'm in a less-than-gracious headspace, expect to have your block knocked off. 

There's an attitude of Stephie that just infuriates me.  It's a spoiled, rotten, ungrateful, bitchy girl who expects everything to be handed to her.  Yes, I realize how I'm opening myself up to the snide comments and maybe-not-so-facetious egging.  I can be her, certainly, and sometimes I pride myself on having that ability.  It's a persona I can step into when needed, much like my stupid blonde.  It's not really who I am at all, but I recognize that there are times in life when being that girl can be beneficial. 

Then there's the issue of the middle name.  Until I was married, my middle name was 'Karen'.  It was my godmother's middle name, though I can only remember having ever seen her once in my life.  Like all Southern children, I could gauge the trouble I was in by how much of my name was yelled across the house:  "Stephanie!" meant I the waters were getting warm; "Stephanie Karen!" meant I was in some pretty hot water indeed; and "Stephanie Karen Quinn!" meant it was boiling and I should probably start thinking up an excuse before they found me. 

In part of my hometown, it's common practice for the daughters of the wealthy Catholic and (high) Episcopal families to be named Mary Moms-Maiden-Name.  There were so many Mary Catherines, Mary Graces, and Mary Margarets, that someone thought they'd get creative.  I knew a Mary Thomas, Mary Carver, Mary Tolbert, Mary James, and a Mary Smith.  It totally fit each of those girls.

When I got married, I had to decide whether to keep Karen or use my maiden name for the new middle.  I wasn't hyphenating, and I didn't intend to keep Quinn as my last name.  So I opted for the 'Q' for the middle initial.  It had become such an integral part of my identity that I couldn't just abandon it.  'Karen' didn't hold a substantial amount of significance for me.  It was a pretty easy call.

 

Alice wonders about her name after she tumbles down the rabbit hole in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland.  She has already been shrinking and growing, and the crisis of identity is well underway:

            "Who in the world am I? Ah, that's the great puzzle!" And she began thinking over all the children she knew that were of the same age as herself, to see if she could have been changed for any of them.

            "I'm sure I'm not Ada," she said, "for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn't go in ringlets at all; and I'm sure I can't be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, she's she, and I'm I, and--oh dear, how puzzling it all is!"

She tries to remember the things she knows of math and geography.  She tries for the first time in the story to recite a well-known poem, but she is flummoxed when she can't recall the words correctly, a commonly recurring theme in Alice:

            "I'm sure those are not the right words," said poor Alice, and her eyes filled with tears again as she went on, "I must be Mabel after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I've made up my mind about it; if I'm Mabel, I'll stay down here! It'll be no use their putting their heads down and saying 'Come up again, dear!' I shall only look up and say 'Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I'll come up: if not, I'll stay down here till I'm somebody else'--but, oh dear!" cried Alice, with a sudden burst of tears, "I do wish they would put their heads down! I am so very tired of being all alone here!" 

There's certainly an emotional connotation to a person's name, both from within and without.  All of our acquired knowledge of a name--everyone we've ever known, or not known, with that name and how we recall that person--is intimately entwined with the name itself, even if the person changes.  I have refused to date or get to know people because they happened to have the same name as someone else I didn't like.  We also expect other people with our same name to behave in similar ways, as if they have applied the same emotional knowledge to the name itself.   I fully expect other Stephanies to be strong-willed and obstinate, but also generous and loyal.  We're also curious and smart and generally likable, though we have some substantial self-esteem issues that sometimes rear their ugly heads in our gilded mirrors.  We also like cats and princesses, though nothing too froufrou or fussy. 

I know nothing of the Stefanies and the Stephanias of the world.  Those are wholly different names.  Stevie isn't really a Stephanie, and I bet she'd back me up on this.  And don't get me started on the Stepfanies.  UGH.

But what if I'd been named something else entirely?  What if I'd been Julia or Tiffany or Samantha?  Would any other names have fit me as well as Stephanie?  I've tried to imagine myself with some other name, but it's hard.  Heather was an option for a while in my early teens, but then there was that whole movie.  Natalie might have worked, but it's my grandmother's name. 

If I had to choose a new name now, it would likely be Ardala, 'cause it would bring me one step closer to my dream job of intergalactic princess. 

I don't know what my friends will name their baby, and it's completely up to them.  I fully believe that the babies whisper their names to their parents when ithey're ready.  Mom and Dad will know when they've found the right name for their child, and no amount of input from anyone else will change that. 

Having had two children, I also know that it won't really matter for a while.  They'll end up calling it "the baby" for a few weeks, and pretty quickly they'll christen it with some ridiculous inner-family-circle-only nickname that sticks with them until they rebel against it in their early teens.  I like to think of it as their jellicle name.  I fully expect to have my ass handed to me the first time I call my eldest "Binky Butt" in front of his friends, and I'm positive "Tricky" for the youngest will come back to haunt me. 

I don't have the ringlets of an Ada, and I know too much to be a Mabel.  Today, at least, I'm too sure of who I am to be an Alice.  But I have the purple-streaked strawberry-blonde hair and too-loud-laugh of Stephanie Quinn Jackson, so I guess I'm sticking with that.  It seems to suit me just fine.