Names are a funny thing. I have never really liked mine. I was named for an operetta that my mother saw on the big screen back in the early 1950’s. It was called “Naughty Marietta” and starred Jeanette MacDonald and Nelson Eddy. My mother and her sister saw the movie and decided that whoever had a daughter first would use this unique name they had both fallen in love with.
Your name shapes who you are. Mine helped to change me from an outgoing little girl into a shy young lady who was embarrassed about everything. Not only did I have a foreign mom with a strong accent, but I lived in the zoo. Add other issues I had and a weird name and well, you get the idea. I tried to come up with nicknames to replace the name that no one seemed able to pronounce, but none of them ever stuck.
Acting meant that I could have a different name and different back story, so it was appealing to me for that as well as many other reasons. When I acted, I could be the outgoing little girl I had been before school changed me. All the embarrassments just disappeared.
My mother was born with a totally different name than the one she died with. The name given to her at birth didn’t mean at the time of her birth and in her culture what it meant in our culture later on in her life. Her name, given to her at birth, was Lesbia.
When she moved to this country in 1956 it was quickly pointed out to her that her name had a “bad” meaning and that she should change it, so she went through the process to change it to Lisa. Between a new first name and a new last name due to marriage, her whole identity was changed.
My mom gave up most of herself to be a dutiful wife and mother. She let go of any dreams and had no other interests than to be the best wife and mom she could be. Lesbia had been young and had plans and hopes. Lisa was a wife and mom, period. We had some serious heart to heart talks over her later years and I always felt she had some regrets about all of this.
There is a song that says, “There’s so many things that she wishes, she don’t even know what she’s missing, and that’s how she knows that she missed.” It always makes me think of my mom and what she gave up.
Two days before she died, I entered her hospital room and she was talking gibberish. The nurse said she had been agitated all morning, speaking Spanish (her native language) and “pretending” to be a teacher ( her job for a year before she was married and moved away.) They told me she kept saying something over and over that made no sense.
When they left the room I went to my mom’s side and asked her what she was trying to say. In her current slurred, weak and unfamiliar voice she said three words over and over and over. At first I was baffled. But the more I listened, I realized what she was saying. “I AM LESBIA! I AM LESBIA!”
When the nurse returned and asked me if I had figured out what she was saying, I just shrugged. It was too long of a story and I didn’t think I could share it. My mom was finally remembering who she was. She thought she was back in Puerto Rico, she was speaking Spanish and she was reclaiming the person she had been before life had begun to change things.
Names are funny. They can shape who we are or just be what people call us. I have had friends who would correct people about the pronunciation of MY name even though I had just learned to live with the errors. My son has a very common name with a little bit different spelling and he gets beside himself when someone misspells it. Some people love their name, others can’t stand it or change it altogether. Movie stars used to be encouraged to get a more simple, catchy stage name, but now most just keep the name they have.
In theatre classes I had a professor who made us start each semester with a statement about ourselves. Since I had this teacher for many classes I tried to make each statement different and use each one to reveal a little bit more about myself. One class I remember saying that my name was Marietta, just Marietta. That my current last name was actually my husband’s name that I had taken upon marriage and that my maiden name was actually my father’s and I was happy to leave it behind me. So for all of the heartache and trouble my odd name had caused, I claimed it as my one and only, true name. (I told them it was like Cher or Madonna, two other old white women who had claimed their one true name!)
That day in the hospital, less than 48 hours before her death, my mom claimed her one true name. She remembered who she had been christened as, who she was becoming when she was a child, what she was hoping for as an adult. She said it over and over that day hoping someone would listen, someone would acknowledge her for who she was as an individual, who she had lost somewhere along the way. Her words have haunted me now for two months.
I AM. . . Who are you? Where has life taken you that you never planned to go? How far off the mark have you gotten? How much better or worse of an authentic person have you become? When your hours are numbered, who do you want to be remembered as?? I Am ?????
