Ahem: so the following story does not paint my parents in the best of light. Don’t go judging them, m’kay? Because, that’s my job and they are happy to inform you that I’ve been employee of the month for years now. It’s my only claim to ambition and while it’s twisted I think they are proud of me for it. They are also products of their generation where people thought names like Barbie and Coco and Chip were appropriate for children because the purpose of “nic names” hadn’t dawned on them yet. That’s right, they are Boomers. Judge them and their peers for all the ills of this world, I certainly do, but this, this is just comedy. Which, means, it’s my life–and parts of it are made up.

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Bethiclaus recently wrote a post entitled: What’s in a Name?. Go read that first. Waiting… Ok, now that you are back, here’s my answer to that question: EVERYTHING.

When I was in fourth grade our class was given a research project. We were to write a report about the meaning of our name. My first step was to head to the library with the other hoards to look up my name in the one copy of Naming Your Baby the elementary school had on reserve. I know what you are thinking, but before you freak out, you should know that book was on inter-library loan from the High School. Now you can freak out. I wasn’t Ms. Popularity, so I had to wait until the end of the day for the book. Somehow, I got the option of taking the book home.

“So, Dad,” I opened,waving the book in front of him, “You know what I have here?”

“What?”

“I have a book.”

“Oh really, about what?”

“About the meanings of names.”

“Is that so? What’s your name mean?”

“Funny, thing, DAD–my name’s not in it. Apparently, I have no meaning because I don’t exist.”

Most of you would have headed to your mothers for this bit of information–and you would be right. Except, in my family, the choosing of my name was pure folk-lore that revolved around my father.

Somehow, my parents were convinced they were having a boy. This is partly a Southern reality. You just have boys first in the South. Proven fact. As my daddy is Southern, it was unquestioned that he would be getting a boy. This is also plain optimism because I was conceived before the advent of routine sonograms. My parents had no way of knowing my sex until they could see me. But in their optimism, they only picked out a boy’s name. It never occurred to them that I could be a girl. And they planned accordingly. My name would have been Sean Kelly–and as this was the beginning of the 70’s and the era where people took great pride in giving their children gender neutral names, you’d think they would have just used it. Because, that’s what people without a plan would do? But not my father.

No, my dad decided to name me, Wendy. For no reason beyond liking it. And then he gave me a middle name after his favorite jazz singer–she was French and dad didn’t speak French so he spelled my name phonetically. Which means my middle name is made up, too.

In the hours that had passed after coming home from school, I had poured over this text in vain hope of finding some link to my name. Nothing. Under the heading of Wendy a simple explanation was given: a name of a character popularized by the children’s author J.M. Barrie by his novel Peter Pan. It is believed the character was named after a friend of Barrie’s whom he affectionately called, “Friendy Wendy”.

My middle name was so butchered I could find nothing that even resembled it. When pressed on the spelling of it, my father could never produce any documentation of this “jazz singer.” She didn’t exist. I began to suspect he just made the whole thing up under pressure. Both my name and the explanation I was hounding him to provide.

I was an unhappy 9 year old.

I glared at my father, “How could you do this to me?”

“Well, it was easy. I liked the name.”

“But, it doesn’t mean anything!”

“Yeah, but if I’d given you a longer name, people would have just shortened it anyhow. This way, at least people can’t give you a nic name.”

This glib answer formed a perfect kind of hatred in my little soul. How could a person be so cavalier with a name? With MY name? Did he not know I’d have to answer to all my peers at school? Did he not realize that in “non-naming” me he would only reinforce the perception that I didn’t matter in fourth grade? Could he not have had enough foresight to realize that one day I would be a skinny, flat-chested fourth grader with frizzy hair and would it have KILLED him to give me a name that meant, say, beautiful? Or, even, brave?

If I could go back and re-write history, I would go back to the day before I was born and I’d make sure my parents were given a highlighted copy of Naming Your Baby with the boy’s section torn out.

Instead, I got to report back to school. It wasn’t pretty. By 8th grade I had cobbled together a small group of equally flat-chested friends. We’d all been in 4th grade together and the story behind my name was legendary. Being loyal, this group decided that if my father did not want me to have a nic name, that is precisely what I would be given. And in an act of sheer brilliance, they decided to do him one better: they lengthened my name. Through a series of explorations and failed attempts, I was dubbed Wendelynn.

And it’s stuck. The spelling of my name, takes a circuitous route that really has no import. Other than now there is an “e” where the “y” used to stand. It would be lovely if Wendelynn meant something, but like its predecessor, it’s pointless with this caveat: it belongs to me. It was chosen with thought, given in loyalty. That it sticks in my dad’s craw is just bonus. I’m still 9, what can I say?

And my middle name? Well, the day I turned 23 the phone rang.

“You got a pencil on hand?” My dad asked.

“Sure, why?”

“Take this down. M. I. R. E. I. L. L. E. That’s how you spell your middle name—Happy Birthday.”

Happy Birthday, indeed.