I was given the name Elizabeth. Everyone knows me as Beth. My Italian father and Irish-English mother named me after Saint Elizabeth. I was Bethy when I was young, but I have grown out of it. My older brother is the only one who can still call me Bethy and get away with it.
There are some recent acquaintances who have taken to calling me Bethy and I don’t mind all that much. Maybe because they are 10+ years older than I am. I guess from elders, it’s endearing. From peers and others younger than myself, it’s … I don’t know … patronizing? At least, unpleasant.
Maybe the entire problem is that I don’t have a name that I can dependably remember when I’m stressed. My biological parents found unity on very few subjects but one was their fondness for that nursery tale of love and loss—Little Bo-Peep has lost her sheep and can’t tell where to find them. ip adr […]
I was named Priscilla after my mother’s mother. All her sisters named their first born daughter after their mother. I received a card from a cousin: Dear number 6, happy birthday from number one. Years later I changed my name to Brydie so I would have a name of my own.