What's in a name?

Before I emerged from the womb, my dad had suggested the name “Denise” – the name of a former love.

But he and my mother settled on Jacqueline Elizabeth: Jacqueline for Jackie Kennedy; Elizabeth after my great-grandmother’s middle name.

Once, when I was 7, I was taking too long getting ready, fiddling with my Care Bear socks to get the seams just right. 

“Jackalin, hurry up,” my mother said.

“It’s JacQWAline, not JackUHline,” I replied.

My great-grandmother always spelled the shortened version of my name with a Y.

My stepgrandfather insisted on calling me Jackson and Jack Rabbit. I was neither a boy nor fast.

My mom called me Sis when I was good and Jackie Beth when I was not. I heard Jackie Beth a lot.

In junior high school, I got called Tracy. My best friend and I became indistinguishable despite not looking a damn thing alike.

When I was 13, I tried to make my name fancier, so I dropped the k-i-e in favor of q-u-i. My friends called me “Jacqwee” on purpose. I took back the k-i-e.

Professionally, I am Jacqueline E. Tirey. My author name is J.E. Tirey.

I’ve been Jack (yuck), Jax, Jay-bird, Jaqattaq, Tinkerbelle, Sweetpea, Scooter, Beanie, Scoop, Tits Magee and Trixie. I’d like to be a Libby.

During pep talks (or reprimands) to myself, I use my last name only, as if the reputation of my family name depends on how I comport myself.

I love the way “mom” and “mother” sound when my kids refer to me. I giggle when John calls me his paczki.

And yet, my whole name “Jacqueline Elizabeth Tirey” sounds sweetest to my ears. It has weight. Importance. I am trying to live up to it.