That’s My Name

For much of my life, I’ve gone by a nickname. Through my teens I was “Silky” for obscure reasons I don’t even remember. But it had something to do with the famous horse, Silky Sullivan, and something to do with my older brother being called Silky when he was a pretty good young pitcher. But mostly it had to do with me not wanting to be called “Deb” or “Debbie.” I hated it. I still hate it.

Now, Silky is not a name with which to grow old gracefully–a 50-year-old Silky is as silly sounding as a 50-year-old Buffy. But also, Silky is not a name that works at work. Not that I think I should need a nickname at work. Deborah is a perfectly lovely name. Strong. Regal. Deserving respect. And not at all hard to remember or spell or pronounce. And yet, at work (and plenty of other places) it seems men (more than women) are unable to manage a full three-syllable name. They have to shorten names. They cannot wrap their little brains or their extremely short attention spans or their lazy, lazy lips around three syllables when addressing another adult.

So for close to 20 years I’ve been known as Bo. An ex boyfriend’s brother, noting my interest in and ability to talk about just about any sport he could think of started calling me Bo because Bo knows. And I did know. So it fit. I made the mistake, or perhaps it was a good decision, to use “Bo knows” as my name on my football pool at work (we each had a pool name). But the guys at work, who knew I was Deborah, never Debbie or Deb, started calling me Bo.

Now, I like Bo well enough. It’s pleasant. Has a nice ring to it. Reflects something about me that is a good story to tell. And it stands out (which, if you were a Debbie in the 60s surely was not the case), but my name is Deborah. Most of my close friends call me Deborah. For the most part, colleagues who respect me call me Deborah. I am always introduced as Deborah. So why do people at work who aren’t in my work group think it’s okay to call me Deb? Why do they email “Debbie?” Who the hell is she? And does she really have to answer them?

Of course, there’s more to this than just preference, although I didn’t realize it until I was in therapy a few years ago. I was an abused child–sexually and emotionally. The people who abused me called me Deb or Debbie. If someone calls me Deb, my stomach turns. I know that when someone calls me Debbie I get an “if looks could kill” look on my face, but I can’t help it.

What’s the point? I guess my point is this. If somone introduces themselves to you by a particular name, use that name unless they later say they have a nickname and invite you to use it. If someone is introduced to you as Deborah and your next words are “nice to meet you Debbie” you have just been insufferably rude.  The person has the right to choose what she will be called (within reason–I’m not calling a girl “bitch” no matter what she asks).

I think maybe the old timers in the 19th century had it right. They would never make free with the name of another. I’d have been Miss Deborah through my youth and Miss Sullivan since my sisters both married. And I’d have been a whole lot less cranky.