JANICE LUCINDA BEARE
—That's me. So why do I feel like an imposter wearing somebody else's name tag?
Our name is central to our identity—it reflects our history, family background, culture, and how we are recognized in the world.
When I was little, my mother read me a book to explain to me how she and my father chose me from a "Home." Then she explained why she and my father named me “Janice Lucinda.” “We named you ‘Janice’ because we thought it couldn’t be shortened into some gawd-awful nickname, and ‘Lucinda,’ after my first name.” She gave no hint that I might have already had a name when they chose me.
I always thought of my name as a combination of something merely serviceable plus something second-hand, tacked on to remind people that I was her child. For some reason I didn't understand, I found carrying around her name to be burdensome.
Because everyone in town knew and respected my father as a talented doctor, and because he took me everywhere with him as soon as I was able to walk, I soon realized that my name to most other people in town was “Dr. Beare’s Daughter.” I thought of this name as a shield. No one would think to harm "Dr. Beare's Daughter." Being her was better than just being, "Janice," who was always one small step above being "gawd-awful." Whenever people addressed me as "Janice," I felt like ducking my head, or saying, "Who?"
When I was a teen and went away to camp where no one knew me, I chose to introduce myself to everyone as "Jan." It felt lighter than "Janice." "Jan" could be a fun person. Maybe I could be her.
When I married Jeff Jones, I was happy to take his surname. It identified me as belonging to someone that I had chosen. I was happy to be known as Jeff's wife and my chidren's mother. I no longer felt like an imposter.
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