They call me Kerr or Kerry now. Once upon a time my childhood bedroom had a heart with my name written in it and a Care Bear painted on the wall next to it. I became Kerr-Bear. Cute, no?
Nicknames are fun and sometimes irritating. We don’t get to choose our names, but nicknames can follow us around forever.
I used to be annoyed by being called a cartoon bear, but now I kind of miss it. A boyfriend did it to get under my skin. Not so cute when you’re fifteen-years-old.
The story of how I got my actual name, which I may have previously told here. Ah, but who’s counting?
My big sister, born two years before me, they named Kim. Another K name was what my parents were going for. Then, in the bed next to my mom was a woman named Kerry. Interesting spelling, not all that common, so that is the one they went with. The perfect K name. It was meant to be.
I like that story, for some reason. I wasn’t named after family. I could have been Kelly or Karen or Katie, if it weren’t for that woman in the next hospital bed that day.
Middle names are odd to me. Mine was Lynne. Sometimes Lynn. I would forget actual spelling for a chunk of time. Mine was/is the same as my cousin. Now I share Lynne with my new niece. I am beyond thrilled and honoured that my sister and brother-in-law would grant me this gift.
Mine is a name that must be annunciated clearly, or else people hear Karen or Kaylee. They never spell it right. I like being me, being her, being Kerr.
This has been a
Finish The Sentence Friday
with Kristi from Finding Ninee.
One final thought:
I am currently watching the new adaptation of The Handmaid’s Tale and all women are forced to change their names. It helps strip them of any prior identity and it made me wonder what I would feel, if suddenly, I was forbidden to be me, forbidden to be Kerry?