WHAT'S IN A NAME?

At a family dinner for my birthday last November, one of my bonus sons** suggested that everyone take turns describing me in one word. And so they did, each in turn, going around the table.  It was lovely and interesting and touching.  When it was my son-in-law Peter's turn, he did not hesitate.  "Curious" was his word.

I was flattered. I am, after all, as the title of this blog makes clear, not getting any younger.  To be seen as curious feels like a high compliment.

And, indeed, I am.  Curious.  I love to learn new things, to read about stuff I heretofore knew nothing about.

I love discovering new words, new writers, new poems and novels.  I love being surprised by new ways of approaching old problems.

I am the kind of person who asks questions of the dentist when her mouth is filled with equipment.

Curiosity seems a fine way to ward off aging.

Here is something cool my curiosity recently led me to.  I have been doing research for a writing project.  This involves reading about 19th-century Glasgow, as well as reading books written during this period. In the course of my reading, I came across the word speir.   When I looked it up, I learned it means inquirer.  Thus, my name --Speirs -- reflects my curiosity.

I love this.

Before discovering its meaning, I never much liked my name.  For one thing, no one can spell it.  Even when I spell it out slowly, it gets written down as Spiers or Spears or Speers or Speris.  For another thing, people think I am German, which would be OK if I were German, but I am not. I am Scottish.  My folks left Scotland for Canada shortly before my birth, and Speirs really is a Scottish name.

Here's proof.

When I was in Scotland last autumn, I took a picture of this street sign not far from my aunt's home in a suburb of Glasgow.



And then there is this Edinburgh-based estate agent company (realtors to Americans).



And, finally, there is Glasgow's Speirs Wharf.

Regardless of my background, I am, of course, an American.  But being a naturalized citizen, my roots feel very close. And now that I know its meaning, I feel more warmly toward my surname.

There is still, however, the matter of my first name.  Growing up, I was the only Marjorie among the Lindas, Cathys, Barbaras, Carols, Marilyns, and Susans.  No one under the age of 80 had my name and it has not come back into fashion during any decade of my lifetime.  

Is it not odd that we don't get to choose the name by which we present ourselves to the world? On the other hand, if the choice were not given to our parents, we might wander about without a given name for years. And what are the odds we would want to live with a name we might have chosen at, say, age three? 

When I became an American citizen at age 19, I considered changing my first name to Heather.  (This could easily have been accomplished as part of the citizenship paper work.) I would simply ditch Marjorie. After all, as with my surname, who could spell or say it?  To this day, when I order a sandwich, I give my middle name to avoid hearing the person behind the counter yell out "Mayjorie" (no 'r') or "Margarine."

I am glad I did not make the change to Heather for I would have been stuck with a name that, for me, lost its appeal over time.  A decade or so later, though, I again semi-seriously considered changing my name. This time, I toyed with Anne (my middle name) Thomson (my mother's birth name). I quickly realized, however, that I would still have spelling issues.  I could imagine myself repeating, "That's Anne with an 'e' and Thomson, no 'p.'"

And so I (mostly) made peace with my name (just don't call me "Marge") and gave the name Anne to my first daughter and Mara to my second born. Simple names, I believed, and yet, Anne, while living in London, introduced herself to someone and was met with, "Your name is "N"? And I sometimes have to correct those who would pronounce Mara ( properly Mahrah) as Mayrah, with a long "a" in the first syllable.  

I conclude, therefore, that there are no simple names.  I am sure that people can find a way to mishear and misspell or mispronounce Smith or Jones.  I can hardly begin to imagine the plight of those Americans who do not have European-sounding names.  And I am certainly aware that any challenges presented by my name are nothing compared to the challenges of those whose "Black-sounding" names keep them from getting job interviews or other perks of our white-centered culture.  Sure, there was a time in my youth when my female first name might have kept me from opportunities, but at present the only prejudice Marjorie is likely to evoke is the assumption that I am ancient. And now that I am getting up in years, I can't even complain about that.

And so I will sign off here with the full name given me by my parents -- Marjorie Anne Speirs.  

And just out of curiosity, I will ask:  How about it, readers -- what have people done to your names and would you change them if you could?  

**I have three stepsons.  A few years ago when I was casting about for a term that would indicate our relationship, without making them "step" or claiming to have raised them, a friend suggested "bonus sons."  This seems to cover the pleasure of my having them in my life, without my taking any credit for their awesomeness.  I guess that makes their wives "bonus daughters," and the man one of them married, another "bonus son."  Such bounty.