what’s in a name?

A game I enjoy playing with R is “would you still love me if…” It can be anything: I looked like this (here I make an absurd face involving crossed eyes); I talked like this (some terrible twang, accent, or tone of voice); I had a mullet; my hair was long and poofy; I dressed in jumpers; I drove an el camero with “bitches” inscribed on the back windshield in old English; and on and on. It’s fun. We laugh. She plays back, asking me if I would love her if. The answer is most often: “I would love you. I just wouldn’t be with you.”
Jest, all. But still, it makes me wonder about all the myriad characteristics involved in a couple’s compatibility. Something as trivial as a name makes a difference. Perhaps names aren’t trivial, but how many people would freely admit to deciding against dating someone based solely on their name? It might make one seem shallow. It would me. But still, I realize that I am happier with the name Rebecca than I have been with any other name I have been in relationship with. Why? Last night, I identified the cause.
We were playing the game, but this time it was: “Would you still love me if my name was ________?” Names tossed up for consideration varied from common to obscure to new-aged: Amy, Brooke, Pat, Janet, Jan, Buffy, Muffin, Tiddy (strange, I know, but we encountered someone with this name just the other day). And then there were the stranger, new-age-ish names: Rain, Thunder, Cloud, Flower, Petal. In response to most of these, R admitted that she never would have been open to knowing me in the first place had my name been such. And I said that I would have had to find something else to call her if her name had been Tiddy. Like T. Or even Tid. Then it occurred to me: Other than the obvious problem with this name, what bothered me most was it’s ending in “y.” Too often, names that end this way, or are shortened to a version that end this way, or are lengthened to a version that end this way cause it to sound unintentionally intimate or somehow childlike. Bob to Bobby. Ken to Kenny. Samantha to Sammy. It’s actually quite fine, but I discovered through our game last night that it bothers me somewhat—that the lack of the “y” at the end of a name makes it more appealing to my ears, more refined, somehow better. Thus, the person becomes more appealing, refined, and better. Silly, I know. But true.
It’s why I prefer Elizabeth over what my family condemned me to from birth, a nickname of Betsy. And if it needs to be shortened, let’s do so logically by using its first syllable: El. Similarly with Rebecca. She prefers Rebecca. She also prefers Elizabeth. I never knew this about myself before last night.
I have learned many things about myself these past nine months. The result of many changes and disruptions to who I thought I was has been the discovery of who I am.