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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.

Bonita W.

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.