My name in France is problematic.
The problem is best explained through the eyes of a four year old.
Adorable Simone, son of friends, with whom we play Ninja and hide under couches while waiting for more guests, asks one evening why my name is Pat. Because pat (pâte) is the word in French for pasta. His mother responds politely, and as most four year olds go, he accepts that I am named after pasta.
Whenever Tony introduces me, the confused looks or borderline smiles are so evident that he just tells the people that my real name is Patricia. You can call her Patricia, he says. I sort of jolt when I hear him give permission to just casually change my name. Even when I type out the name it looks so foreign, so I guess it is appropriate to take on a new French-acceptable name while a foreigner in France.
I fought hard for my name. As a child I was Patti, only called Patricia when I was in trouble. As I grew so did my desire for a more sophisticated version of Patti. I had tired of "Fatty Patti," and I didn't like my association with Patty Duke. Mom thought I should go by Tricia in junior high, but that just wasn't me and Tricia was already claimed by a girl with a partly paralyzed face on the cheer squad.
A name is the one most familiar aspect to the self, even more so than the visual self caught in a mirror (understood best by people who've added a few miles to the odometer).
When a new acquaintance addresses me by my new moniker, I am slightly startled as this new person named Patricia who otherwise would be just a penne, a spaghetti, or a bowtie.
The problem is best explained through the eyes of a four year old.
Adorable Simone, son of friends, with whom we play Ninja and hide under couches while waiting for more guests, asks one evening why my name is Pat. Because pat (pâte) is the word in French for pasta. His mother responds politely, and as most four year olds go, he accepts that I am named after pasta.
Whenever Tony introduces me, the confused looks or borderline smiles are so evident that he just tells the people that my real name is Patricia. You can call her Patricia, he says. I sort of jolt when I hear him give permission to just casually change my name. Even when I type out the name it looks so foreign, so I guess it is appropriate to take on a new French-acceptable name while a foreigner in France.
I fought hard for my name. As a child I was Patti, only called Patricia when I was in trouble. As I grew so did my desire for a more sophisticated version of Patti. I had tired of "Fatty Patti," and I didn't like my association with Patty Duke. Mom thought I should go by Tricia in junior high, but that just wasn't me and Tricia was already claimed by a girl with a partly paralyzed face on the cheer squad.
A name is the one most familiar aspect to the self, even more so than the visual self caught in a mirror (understood best by people who've added a few miles to the odometer).
When a new acquaintance addresses me by my new moniker, I am slightly startled as this new person named Patricia who otherwise would be just a penne, a spaghetti, or a bowtie.
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