It cannot have escaped your notice that I am writing (and
working) under a different name. Here’s
the story. I was born Annette Lee Ditmore in 1967 right on the heels of the
Mickey Mouse phenomena. By the time I
came along, it had died down just a little; the Mousketeers had gone into
syndication and the rage had evolved to Annette Funicello and Frankie Valley in
Beach Blanket Bingo and the rest of the beach movies. My mother loved them all. Annette Funicello was an icon of the era and
her idol. And I was her first and only
daughter – so I became Annette.
Lee is a family
middle name handed down through generations.
My grandmother Grace’s middle name was Lee. My father’s middle name is Lee. So are both my brothers (I can still hear my
father’s voice booming through the house
when someone had done something worth answering for and it was necessary to use
middle names - Steve Lee! Annette Lee! Jayson Lee! - the Lee part always rang up a few octaves). I feminized it by giving it to my daughter as
Leigh. It never seemed right that my Lee
was spelled the same as my brothers’. I
even heard a story once that my grandmother tried to pass herself off as Gracea
Leigh, which may be an indication that a desire to change one’s identity may be
an inherited gene. . . but that’s for
another story. . . Coincidentally, my son-in-law’s middle name is Lee, and so,
of course, when my granddaughter was born in July of 2009, she naturally became
Mackenzie Leigh. Lee/ Leigh is an
integral part of who I am – one little melodic syllable that defines me, and
connects me to people I love. I wouldn’t
change it. Well, maybe just a little. .
.
Annette, to me (sorry, Mom), is anything but melodic. Two hard syllables that equate to the sound
you might make when you stub your toe or you get punched in the gut, and maybe
you’re trying not to curse (unsuccessfully). #@UH*NETT&%j. Once in the second grade (I am not
making this up), my teacher was giving a grammar lesson on articles –
specifically the usage of a or an paired with certain nouns – and she
decided to use the word net to make
her point. Having mastered that lesson already, I felt that I was above such
nonsense, and had reposed into daydream mode long before that point. I was called back from my reverie (I thought)
by a stern scolding (I thought) that was actually animated teaching – Annette! A net?! Or an net?! It was unnerving! I had immediately resumed my good student
dutifully listening stance, so why did she keep saying my name? Why was she YELLING at me?! And why wasn’t she looking at me while she
was yelling at me?! Was this some kind
of teacher trick used on the bad kids that I had never been privy to? Was I one of the bad ones now? My heart began racing wildly. A net! Good! Now I was thoroughly
confused until I realized that she was pointing to the board and none of this
had anything to do with me at all. The
whole incident had played out in less than thirty seconds, but it had been enough
to convince me that Annette was not a good name to go through life with.
It is probably worth mentioning here that my mother’s name
is Antoinette. Beautiful and
charming. One little syllable – twa –
that makes all the difference.
Antoinette, and the twa becomes Toni when it is shortened. Darling. Annette. Ouch. Such a subtle distinction that
defines one a queen or a wounded mouse(keteer).
But I digress again.
Once I made the radical decision to actually change my name, this is how
I decided who I would be. . . Anyone who knows me well knows that both of my
grandmothers had an enormous amount of influence on me. I have often said that one taught me how to
love and the other taught me how to live.
The latter was my mother’s mother who was of distinct Irish
descent. Her mother was “right off the
boat” and though I never met her (my great-grandmother), I often imagined I detected
a hint of the brogue in my grandmother’s loud and strong Buffalo, New York
dialect. She lived to be almost 94 and
was stoic and irrepressible. Even when
she was dying of Cancer, and you would ask her how she was, she would always
answer with a cheerful, “Oh, I can’t complain.”
She could have, but she didn’t.
She could always find something to be happy about, and I believe this attributed
to her longevity. I chose Erin because it means Ireland, and symbolizes one
half (at least) of where I come from. The
other half, I’ve already explained. And
I’ve decided to keep my “A” – that’s all mine. So there it is – Aerin
Leigh.
A final, affirming little detail - literally translated,
Aerin Leigh means Irish poet. I did not know this until after I chose it. I have been known to write a few poems, among
other things. . . maybe I will embark on a new career with my new name as I am
becoming Aerin Leigh. . . but that’s another story. . . I’ve got a lot to tell.
