I’m going to open with an explanation of my name. It’s confusing, even to me. I find names interesting. How we are given these titles, which,
no doubt will have some way of shaping who we become. Some modify, some choose a casual form, some change them
altogether.
I was born Mary-Margaret Pelletier. Mary is my mother’s
name, and Margaret is my father’s mother’s name. My dad must’ve felt like he really needed to kiss ass to the
women in his life at that point.
My mom originally wanted “Penny” (my sister is Paula – Paula and Penny
Pelletier, the adorbs alliteration almost makes you want to punch somebody in
their tenders), but Grandma Margaret wouldn’t go for it unless I was named
after a saint. There was a Saint
Penelope, but my mom was not going to go for that. Too bad. I
wonder what I would’ve become had I been named Penelope. Probs taller.
Fast-forward a couple months or years. I actually don’t know
how soon it happened, or who coined it, but for as long as I can remember, my
family called me “May-Mar.” My
maternal grandparents called me Mary-Mar.
When I was 8 years old, my sister, who was 6 years older/cooler than I
told me something like, “Sisters should have special names for each other. I’m going to call you Mamie.” Or “Mame” I can’t really remember which
one. But that’s how Mame came
about. My mother must’ve gone
along with, because whenever the Rosalind Russell version of Mame came on, I
was watching it. I love that
movie. And, as much as I love
Lucille Ball, her version blows.
Regardless of all the name shifting going on at home, I was
required to go by Mary-Margaret at school. Do you know how much space that takes up when you’ve got the
typical young person’s elephantitis of the alphabet? Not cool.
In 9th grade, I decided that I was going to drop
the Margaret like a cheap ho. No
offense Gma! Unfortunately, my
mother registered me as Mary-Margaret, so the battle of my name began. I remember when, during “Slave Week”
(yesyoureadthatright), a week in which the seniors bought the freshmen for a
week to do their bidding (yesyoureadthatright), a senior called out my name
“Mary-Margaret.” Being a sprightly (read: smartass) person, I quickly corrected
her by adamantly stating, “It’s MARY.” “Oooooooooohhhhhh,” said the seniors,
astonished at my lack of respect for their ability to pass Algebra 2.
My brothers were caught in the crossfire of my
chameleon-like name. At home they
called me “May-Mar” or “Mame” or “Mame-hack” (devised to mock my inability to
master the hackey sack – suck it.)
But, in front of friends – theirs or mine, if they called me anything
besides “Mary,” they would get a saintly ass-kicking.
I went by “Mary” from 9-12th grade. And then that limbo year where I was a
drunken Subway sandwich artist, then my first year of college, and for a few
months when I was playing house with my then boyfriend, who I will address in a
later post. It was when I decided
to move to Oregon, that I decided I’d go exclusively by my family
nickname. I’ve been Mame ever
since.
Mary never quite felt right. For me, it’s too vanilla, too old fashioned, too much my
mother’s name. No offense to any
Marys out there, especially my mom.
Oh, it’s important to note here… I’m pretty sure the hyphen
wasn’t on my gift certificate. My
whole life may be a lie.
