"Don't Call Me 'Shirley'!"

     There are few things in life more frustrating than going through said life with a name you dislike. Okay, hate—there, I said it.

     Well, let me be clearer. I love the name "Leticia." What I hate is the nickname "Letti." Or "Letty." Or "Lettie." Or all other variations thereof. (I spelled it the first way.) It wasn't my choice, mind you; my family pinned it on me. By the time I was old enough to protest, it had stuck for good and I doubt very much that if I did protest it would have been to any avail, as my voice and opinions never counted for much in my family anyway. That's what comes of having five assertive elder siblings. So I went through school and college and a good part of my professional life cringing whenever anyone said my name. Introducing myself to new people was, unfortunately, a frequent occurrence, working as I did in the opera biz where visiting artists constantly floated in and out of the theater and in and out of my life.

     "Hi, I'm Letti."

     "Sorry; Lennie?"

     "No, Letti. Rhymes with Betty."

     That little exchange occurred with almost every single introduction, usually with gritted teeth on my part.

     More than the struggle for correct pronunciation, I simply hated the sound of the name. There was something, I don't know, faintly ninny-ish about it, something that conjured up images of a little girl in ringlets and bows, which I most certainly wasn't and never was, even as a child.

     Somewhere in the mid-90's I decided to change my image at work. I shed my customary cotton trousers and shirts for a much more polished, haute-couture-by-way-of-consignment-shops look (remember, this was long before eBay). At that time, I still came off younger than I actually was; visiting artists tended to look at me askance because I lacked the appearance of an experienced, knowledgeable coach. Of course, once they began working with me, they relaxed with the realization that I did indeed know my stuff, and trusted me from then on. But I wanted them to trust me at first meeting. So, off with the casuals and on with the Christian Dior.

     Dior just didn't go with the name "Letti."

     So I asked my boss one day, "How difficult would it be for everyone to start calling me 'Leticia'?"

     "Not difficult at all," he assured me.

     He sent out a company-wide memo that day. Leticia—pronounced the British way, that is: Le-tish-a, with a short "i" as in "tissue." Not Le-teee-sha. Not Le-tee-cee-a. Not even Le-tiss-i-a. Let's get it right, from the very start.

     My boss was right; it wasn't difficult at all. For the rest of my Houston Grand Opera years, I was happily known as Leticia. During my postulancy at the Monastery of the Infant Jesus, until I received the habit and my name in religion, I was called Leticia. Bliss.

     Then I left the monastery and returned to the bosom of my family—who to this day call me Letti.

     They refuse categorically to call me Leticia, which I call myself still. Even when they introduce me to people, they introduce me as "Letti," and I always quickly amend, "Leticia." They just can't, or won't, comply with my wishes. Even though it's MY NAME.

     Oh, well. You can't teach an old dog to lead a horse to water.

 

     P. S.  I should add that my family also call me "Let," which I don't mind at all, and I wouldn't mind if my friends called me that, either. What I object to so vehemently is—to quote Elizabeth von Arnim—the "mean little twist, like a pig's tail" at the end of "Letti".