Commentary: What’s in a name? More than one might think

What really is in a name?

Why isn’t my name Paige? Or Regina? Or another pretty name, an uncommon name? A sophisticated name?

My mother named me Mary Elizabeth. I have never liked my name.

In 1939, Mary was the most popular name for baby girls. Where I grew up, it seemed every girl’s first name was Mary. A name so ubiquitous that it seemed almost not real.

In high school, a boyfriend nicknamed me Mary Liz, but I never liked that either. It sounded back-woodsy, like Billy Bob. As an adult, I had only sons. I never got to name a girl baby.

After my divorce, when I applied for a job, my new boss said, “You’re hired. What do people call you?”

“Mary Elizabeth,” I shrugged.

After a pause, he said, “We will call you Liz.”

I liked it. It went well with my then-last name. It goes well with my current last name.

But it is harsh. It isn’t me.

I often sign notes Lizzie. I like the idea of being an old lady named Lizzie. Of course, I hope to have many years before I get there, but I can begin by breaking Lizzie in now.

As my mother aged, her short-term memory got shorter. I had always felt bad because I hadn’t fulfilled one of her life’s wishes: that all of her children graduate from college. So I graduated from college at the age of 59.

When she saw my diploma, in the name of Mary E. Newman, Mother said, “That isn’t your name.”

When my writing partner Bill Thomas and I self-published a college English textbook, I thought my mother would be thrilled.

I said, “Look, Mother. I’ve published a book!”

When she saw the co-author’s name, Liz Newman, she said, “That isn’t your name.”

My writing partner and I sold our self-published book to Harcourt-Brace, and I listed my name as Liz Swiertz Newman.

When Mother saw the cover, she smiled and nodded.

OK, then. Liz Swiertz Newman, it shall be.

My mother lived to be 100 years old. In her last years, she was quite hard of hearing and beyond being able to adapt to hearing aids. My sister, Carolyn, and I communicated with her by means of a white board. It was easier to get her talking and to respond to questions, which she either couldn’t hear or couldn’t absorb any other way.

One day, I wrote “Ray and Carolyn” on the white board.

Mother said, “Oh, those are my children! How do you know them?”

That was somewhat disconcerting, but I could imagine that she remembered me as a child, not my 60-plus self.

I then wrote, “Mary Elizabeth.”

My mother cocked her head, a puzzled look on her face.

“I don’t know her,” she said, “but that is a very pretty name.”

So that is why my name isn’t Paige.

The best I can do, Mother, is my nickname and my maiden name and Lee’s surname. But it is somehow nice to know that if you had it all to do over again, you still would name me something you thought was a very pretty name.

LIZ SWIERTZ NEWMAN lives in Corona del Mar.