I was baptized Mary Anne, named for two impossibly virtuous women, the Blessed Virgin Mary, mother of God, and Saint Anne, her mother. They were the epitome of Catholic womanhood in my parents’ world. A baby name book told me that the names mean bitter and grace.
When I was small, my mother and I had a game where we pretended, just between us, that I was called Cynthia. I don’t remember how it started or which of us chose the name. I think she might have really named me Cynthia if she hadn’t been limited to Catholic names.
The day I started my first full-time job, at 16, someone asked me if I went by Mary or Mary Anne. On an impulse, I said “Mary.” I still don’t know why I did that. Maybe I was taking a step away from my parents’ image of me. (Maybe I was just anxious and flustered.) I’ve been Mary ever since to most of the world, although I remained Mary Anne to my family for years. Under both names, I’ve tried to be who I thought I should be. I’m still not sure who Mary is.
Sometimes I dislike the sound of my name on my inner ear. I’m not sure if it’s the actual sound of the word that bothers me. It might be the echo of bitter holiness, or the fact that it reminds me of all my inadequate past selves.
For now I will call myself beloved. Honey girl. Maria, the wind; Cynthia, the moon. Cuore del mare, heart of the sea.
(I made a few tweaks to this piece after I published it.)
