Roberta Flack’s lyrics rang in my ear when I read, “What’s in a Name,” by blogger, Roxanne Jones. I not only sympathize with her tale of the misery of growing up with an unusual name, I lived it.
She laments about wanting a common name, like Ann or Mary. I, too, longed to be Debbie, or Cathy or Sue, something boys could spell. One suitor, I remember, gave it a shot with CAMEAL.
At fourteen I entered the competition for honored queen in Job’s Daughters, an organization for young girls, associated with the Masons. Campaigning was strictly prohibited in the secretive club. No VOTE FOR CAMILLE banners, mailers or lapel pins allowed. After the winner’s name was announced, one of my fellow “Jobies” ran up to me and confessed, “I would have voted for you, but I didn’t know how to spell your name.” The victor? Jan. Continue reading