A.K.A. Shelly
Christina Hamlett
December 19, 2006
The decision to change my name came on a summer Sunday morning when I was about 7. I have no idea what level of juvenile mayhem precipitated it but, as an inquisitive child, my rap-sheet of mischief was already pretty long.
My father stood at the foot of the staircase, his deep voice reverberating up the spiral. "Christina Lauren! You come down here this very instant!"
Oh great, I thought. What have I done this time? More specifically, which one had they found out about?
The operative words, of course, were 'this very instant' and the use of my first and middle names together in the same sentence. Since I'd gone by 'Laurie' since birth, I'd come to recognize fairly early that the sole purpose of a formal moniker was to warn you that you were in trouble. (Notice how this pattern repeats with the IRS, DMV, and any other institution requiring voluminous paperwork.)
He was still standing there as I neared the bottom steps. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" he said.
From my temporary advantage of elevation, I looked down and matter of factly informed him that I had changed my name to 'Shelly Marie'. Mind you, this wasn't a decision I'd spent a lot of time on. Truth be told, I'd only conjured it up between my bedroom door and halfway down the stairs.
Whatever the gestation period for genius, my declaration completely disarmed him.
"Did you know about this?" he asked my mother as I followed him into the kitchen.
"Know about what?"
"Shelly Marie," he replied.
"Who's Shelly Marie?" she wanted to know.
"Your daughter is changing her name," he said. (I was his daughter, too, but possessive pronouns were always a variant contingent on whose problem it was to solve.)
"What's she changing it to?" she asked.
I could tell right away this was going to be one of the longer conversations of a family that typically didn't talk much.
"So what's this 'Shelly Marie' thing you're naming yourself after?" my mother inquired.
"No one," I said with a shrug. "I made it up."
Honestly. To my knowledge, there were no Mouseketeers, maiden aunts, or cartoon characters with that particularly plucky combination.
My father proceeded to explain that I'd been given 'Christina Lauren' so that I'd have plenty of options as an adult. (Notwithstanding the fact that they'd picked out 'Laurie' themselves, which was my least favorite of the bunch.)
I countered with an equal number of options that could be derived from 'Shelly Marie'.
To my surprise, they agreed that I made a good case. "So when should we start calling you by this new identity?" they asked, almost in unison.
"Right now," I decided.
"You'll have to tell the relatives," my mother pointed out.
"Can't you tell them?" I replied.
"It's your name," my father chimed in. "They should hear it from you. In writing."
Writing?! Even though I'd learned to read and write before I started school, it seemed like a lot to ask of someone so young. I sought to kill two birds with one stone by proposing the compromise of telling them at Christmas when I wrote thank-you's.
"But what will we do with your presents?" my mother said. "They'll be addressed to 'Laurie'..."
"...who doesn't live here anymore," my father finished the sentence. "We'll have to return them."
The avaricious side of me kicked in and I trudged upstairs to start penning what seemed like copious amounts of correspondence. As if such punishment were not cruel enough, I also had to endure them actually calling me by my new name all day.
The first couple of times, of course, it was music to my ears. Shelly Marie! It was fresh, it was bold, it was bouncy. It was practically worthy of adoption by the Osmonds. Sometime after lunch, however, it began to get annoying, especially the saccharin-sweet underscore that wafts of insincerity. Maybe that was their game-plan all along: to make me so sick of being called Shelly Marie that I'd beg and grovel to have my old self back. Which, of course, I did.
The 'Laurie' tag stuck around until my first day of high school. I had reported to homeroom and was waiting for the teacher to take role. (Is it just me or are homeroom teachers people that no one ever has for an actual class but who may, in fact, be off-the-street stand-ins so that the real teachers can take longer breaks in the lounge?) I heard my formal name called out, followed by, "What do you like to go by?"
With as much creative forethought as went into my childhood impulse 7 years previous, I heard myself respond, "Christy." Those who had heretofore known me as 'Laurie' turned to stare in surprise.
Those who didn't know me at all began using it as if I'd been a 'Christy' forever. So natural was this transition to a perky new campus persona that I forgot to tell my parents. When the phone rang at home two weeks into the semester, I heard my father say, "Christy? No, there's no one here by that name."
"That's me!" I exclaimed, flying across the room to grab the receiver.
"She changed her name?" he said to my mother. "When? Why?"
She shrugged cluelessly. "Who knows why kids these days do anything?" she replied.
Curiously enough, it was to change again--this time to 'Christina'--7 years after graduation. By that time, though, I'd embarked on what would be the first of 3 episodes changing my last name as well and rationalizing that 'Christina' was not only more euphonious but hinted at a graceful maturity that 'Christy' and 'Laurie' lacked.
The postscript to this story? As a published author with the last name of Hamlett, I often attend conferences in various cities. "What a great name for a playwright!" people remark after introductions. "Is it real or did you make it up?"
My father stood at the foot of the staircase, his deep voice reverberating up the spiral. "Christina Lauren! You come down here this very instant!"
Oh great, I thought. What have I done this time? More specifically, which one had they found out about?
The operative words, of course, were 'this very instant' and the use of my first and middle names together in the same sentence. Since I'd gone by 'Laurie' since birth, I'd come to recognize fairly early that the sole purpose of a formal moniker was to warn you that you were in trouble. (Notice how this pattern repeats with the IRS, DMV, and any other institution requiring voluminous paperwork.)
He was still standing there as I neared the bottom steps. "Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" he said.
From my temporary advantage of elevation, I looked down and matter of factly informed him that I had changed my name to 'Shelly Marie'. Mind you, this wasn't a decision I'd spent a lot of time on. Truth be told, I'd only conjured it up between my bedroom door and halfway down the stairs.
Whatever the gestation period for genius, my declaration completely disarmed him.
"Did you know about this?" he asked my mother as I followed him into the kitchen.
"Know about what?"
"Shelly Marie," he replied.
"Who's Shelly Marie?" she wanted to know.
"Your daughter is changing her name," he said. (I was his daughter, too, but possessive pronouns were always a variant contingent on whose problem it was to solve.)
"What's she changing it to?" she asked.
I could tell right away this was going to be one of the longer conversations of a family that typically didn't talk much.
"So what's this 'Shelly Marie' thing you're naming yourself after?" my mother inquired.
"No one," I said with a shrug. "I made it up."
Honestly. To my knowledge, there were no Mouseketeers, maiden aunts, or cartoon characters with that particularly plucky combination.
My father proceeded to explain that I'd been given 'Christina Lauren' so that I'd have plenty of options as an adult. (Notwithstanding the fact that they'd picked out 'Laurie' themselves, which was my least favorite of the bunch.)
I countered with an equal number of options that could be derived from 'Shelly Marie'.
To my surprise, they agreed that I made a good case. "So when should we start calling you by this new identity?" they asked, almost in unison.
"Right now," I decided.
"You'll have to tell the relatives," my mother pointed out.
"Can't you tell them?" I replied.
"It's your name," my father chimed in. "They should hear it from you. In writing."
Writing?! Even though I'd learned to read and write before I started school, it seemed like a lot to ask of someone so young. I sought to kill two birds with one stone by proposing the compromise of telling them at Christmas when I wrote thank-you's.
"But what will we do with your presents?" my mother said. "They'll be addressed to 'Laurie'..."
"...who doesn't live here anymore," my father finished the sentence. "We'll have to return them."
The avaricious side of me kicked in and I trudged upstairs to start penning what seemed like copious amounts of correspondence. As if such punishment were not cruel enough, I also had to endure them actually calling me by my new name all day.
The first couple of times, of course, it was music to my ears. Shelly Marie! It was fresh, it was bold, it was bouncy. It was practically worthy of adoption by the Osmonds. Sometime after lunch, however, it began to get annoying, especially the saccharin-sweet underscore that wafts of insincerity. Maybe that was their game-plan all along: to make me so sick of being called Shelly Marie that I'd beg and grovel to have my old self back. Which, of course, I did.
The 'Laurie' tag stuck around until my first day of high school. I had reported to homeroom and was waiting for the teacher to take role. (Is it just me or are homeroom teachers people that no one ever has for an actual class but who may, in fact, be off-the-street stand-ins so that the real teachers can take longer breaks in the lounge?) I heard my formal name called out, followed by, "What do you like to go by?"
With as much creative forethought as went into my childhood impulse 7 years previous, I heard myself respond, "Christy." Those who had heretofore known me as 'Laurie' turned to stare in surprise.
Those who didn't know me at all began using it as if I'd been a 'Christy' forever. So natural was this transition to a perky new campus persona that I forgot to tell my parents. When the phone rang at home two weeks into the semester, I heard my father say, "Christy? No, there's no one here by that name."
"That's me!" I exclaimed, flying across the room to grab the receiver.
"She changed her name?" he said to my mother. "When? Why?"
She shrugged cluelessly. "Who knows why kids these days do anything?" she replied.
Curiously enough, it was to change again--this time to 'Christina'--7 years after graduation. By that time, though, I'd embarked on what would be the first of 3 episodes changing my last name as well and rationalizing that 'Christina' was not only more euphonious but hinted at a graceful maturity that 'Christy' and 'Laurie' lacked.
The postscript to this story? As a published author with the last name of Hamlett, I often attend conferences in various cities. "What a great name for a playwright!" people remark after introductions. "Is it real or did you make it up?"
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