M is for Me, Mary......Or is It?

In my little Catholic elementary school, there were eighteen girls in my class and eight of us were Mary somthing-or-other.  Mary Jo, Mary Kay, Mary Anne, Mary Catherine, Mary Eileen, Mary Michelle, Mary Margaret and me, Mary Rose.  Yeah, I know.  The name doesn't fit me.  It never has.  Given that my mother's alternate names were Mary Louise (super yikes!) or Gretchen, I guess I can't really complain about the moniker Mary Rose.  I might have been able to go with just Rose, had it not been both my mother and grandmother's name.  Nah, probably not.  I am more a dandelion than a Rose and we both know it.  Did I mention all the nuns who taught were also Sister Mary fill-in-the-blank?  My dislike of the name preceded school, so I can't blame the nuns or my sweet little Mary Catholic schoolmates.

My entire family called me Mary Rose growing up.  My grandparents and my dad called me this up to the day they died.  Some of their friends still do call me that when they run into me at the library or in the market.  I broke my mom to calling me Mary a long time ago by explaining how very few people got it right because her name was Rose Marie and mine Mary Rose how they always confused it and called me Rose Mary.  Rose Mary was my grandmother's name and my mom was not a big fan of her mom, so Mary it was.  Secretly, I think she hated shortening it and added that to the pile of mama baggage she carried for my grami.  But to her credit she did concede to my wishes.

The thing is that NONE of those names or variations thereof are me.  I can't tell you how or why that is so, it just is.  There are times when I hear someone say my name to this day and I wonder who that person is they're talking about, even though I intellectually know they are talking about the person that is me.  I have grown accustomed to Mary being the scientist, or the Aunt, but to hear a lover whisper that name is like cold water as I momentarily wonder Who the hell is that before I can recall Oh that is me.  

It is very disconcerting to go through life with the wrong name.  To have to learn to answer to another name like an old pound dog with a new master.  To constantly remind myself that Mary means me.  I don't dislike the name Mary.  It is plain and utilitarian.  Mary Rose is actually a beautiful combo.  But it isn't me.  That name is a placeholder for my true name.

When I was in my late teens I began to toy with changing my name.  The thing is that every name carries so much baggage by the time you are a young adult.  You know Karens, and Sharons, and Michelles and you know a representative from every name that is a complete bitch or fucktard.  My favorite name to dream about was always Evangeline or Evangelina.  No idea why.  But these were not really me either.

In many cultures, a name is not such a static thing as it is for us.  Names were changed at specific points in your life - when you came of age, when you married, to celebrate a life event.  I went through naming rituals a couple times, but the Universe has a way of keeping me from claiming any of those as mine either.  For example, while I was in Sedona, I was given the name Wolfheart.  I loved this name.  It is me in many ways.  My younger brother as I was telling him this story later burst out laughing.  A bit PO'd until he finally stopped laughing long enough to spit out the words Wolf Fart.  (Say them both out loud and you will get it).

I have never really tried to explain this to more than a few people because it is....well.....nuts.  Even so, the older I get the more apparent it becomes, that gulf between Mary and me, such that perfect strangers will now say to me No you're not when I introduce myself to them.  I don't know which name is truly mine.  But until I do, I keep Mary as a placeholder.