Possibly you’ve picked up on this, but socially I had a rough start. I was stone bald for my first few years, long enough to get my baby self a nice little complex. And my ears stuck out. So there were years of teasing.
But there was also this problem: no one would call me by my name. I’d follow my mother around asking, “What’s my name again? How do you spell it?” (Not that I could write yet -- apparently I was thinking ahead.)
The inevitable, inexplicable, impatient answer was: “Your name is Kathy, but we call you Bonnie.”
Bonnie? Somehow I knew it wasn’t the name I’d contracted for when I made my whirling portal entrance not that long before. My parents insisted “Bonnie” was a nickname for my given name (though I’ve never since met anyone who’d heard that). Thus I grew up with the mistaken notion that we were part Irish.
I hated the name Bonnie because it wasn’t mine, but also because it caused a father in our neighborhood to bellow out, “My BON-nie lies O-ver the O-cean . . .” whenever he saw me. I loathed that so-called song, which only made him bellow it more. I’d scream and flee, too young to adopt a protective indifference.
By kindergarten I was on a personal campaign to banish Bonnie and be called -- was it too much to ask? -- by my actual name. My efforts eventually worked, except with the bellowing neighbor -- and my quirky grandfather, who called me the somehow far less offensive “Benny” until he died.
Anyway, by the early days of my inadvertent career I was a ripe little mess, who saw the working world as a chance to meet new and interesting (ideally non-teasing) friends. And by far the most interesting, even fascinating, new friend in my sights was named Debbie.
Debbie was younger than I was, married with two little children. This alone amazed me, because she seemed completely unfazed by these accomplishments.
I impressed Debbie right from my first day, when I overheard her say she’d fallen asleep watching a movie the night before, missing the ending. The movie was Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? -- which, fortunately for her, I’d stayed up for.
I presented myself at Debbie’s cubicle with a big smile over her good news. And with many a dramatic, bug-eyed flourish, I reenacted the entire ending then and there. She politely tried to stop me, but I kept on, insisting it was no problem and really worth it to her.
Debbie was casually one of the funniest people I’d ever met. Her mother, Doris, worked in the same office, and the two were like a comedy team. They told the story of Debbie’s birth, how a panicky intern had tried to hold Doris’s legs together until the doctor could get there. After a pause for effect, Debbie rubbed her head thoughtfully.
“To this day I can’t wear hats,” she said.
I loved those two, and I was determined to make Debbie my friend. But it wasn’t to be. She was too busy to hang out, she told me, between the job, the kids, the husband. Now I’d gotten married myself recently, though I hadn’t planned on it affecting my social calendar, but I let it go and continued to admire Debbie from relatively afar.
That immediate fascination with someone was unusual for me, but in this case it turned out to be just the thing, possibly even hereditary. Because one day, Doris, who’d (somehow . . .) never been especially interested in me, came in to work looking as if she’d seen a ghost. And, in a way, she had.
She approached me and stared.
“Ah, hey, listen . . . did you by any chance ever go by the name Bonnie, maybe when you were little?”
She looked faint when I told her I had. How did she know?
Still in shock, Doris told me that she’d once been my mother’s best friend. She said that my mother -- who’d died 15 years earlier -- had somehow kept her up nearly all the night before, whispering excitedly to her about me. “That’s Bonnie!” she’d said, again and again. “It’s Bonnie!”
Doris then revealed a glossy, page-sized photograph. In it, she and her new husband were running down church steps, dodging the classic hail of rice. And there, in the crowd that lined the steps, was my mother, beaming in a shimmering dress.
Doris let me make a copy, and I have it still.
But there was also this problem: no one would call me by my name. I’d follow my mother around asking, “What’s my name again? How do you spell it?” (Not that I could write yet -- apparently I was thinking ahead.)
The inevitable, inexplicable, impatient answer was: “Your name is Kathy, but we call you Bonnie.”
Bonnie? Somehow I knew it wasn’t the name I’d contracted for when I made my whirling portal entrance not that long before. My parents insisted “Bonnie” was a nickname for my given name (though I’ve never since met anyone who’d heard that). Thus I grew up with the mistaken notion that we were part Irish.
I hated the name Bonnie because it wasn’t mine, but also because it caused a father in our neighborhood to bellow out, “My BON-nie lies O-ver the O-cean . . .” whenever he saw me. I loathed that so-called song, which only made him bellow it more. I’d scream and flee, too young to adopt a protective indifference.
By kindergarten I was on a personal campaign to banish Bonnie and be called -- was it too much to ask? -- by my actual name. My efforts eventually worked, except with the bellowing neighbor -- and my quirky grandfather, who called me the somehow far less offensive “Benny” until he died.
Anyway, by the early days of my inadvertent career I was a ripe little mess, who saw the working world as a chance to meet new and interesting (ideally non-teasing) friends. And by far the most interesting, even fascinating, new friend in my sights was named Debbie.
Debbie was younger than I was, married with two little children. This alone amazed me, because she seemed completely unfazed by these accomplishments.
I impressed Debbie right from my first day, when I overheard her say she’d fallen asleep watching a movie the night before, missing the ending. The movie was Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? -- which, fortunately for her, I’d stayed up for.
I presented myself at Debbie’s cubicle with a big smile over her good news. And with many a dramatic, bug-eyed flourish, I reenacted the entire ending then and there. She politely tried to stop me, but I kept on, insisting it was no problem and really worth it to her.
Debbie was casually one of the funniest people I’d ever met. Her mother, Doris, worked in the same office, and the two were like a comedy team. They told the story of Debbie’s birth, how a panicky intern had tried to hold Doris’s legs together until the doctor could get there. After a pause for effect, Debbie rubbed her head thoughtfully.
“To this day I can’t wear hats,” she said.
I loved those two, and I was determined to make Debbie my friend. But it wasn’t to be. She was too busy to hang out, she told me, between the job, the kids, the husband. Now I’d gotten married myself recently, though I hadn’t planned on it affecting my social calendar, but I let it go and continued to admire Debbie from relatively afar.
That immediate fascination with someone was unusual for me, but in this case it turned out to be just the thing, possibly even hereditary. Because one day, Doris, who’d (somehow . . .) never been especially interested in me, came in to work looking as if she’d seen a ghost. And, in a way, she had.
She approached me and stared.
“Ah, hey, listen . . . did you by any chance ever go by the name Bonnie, maybe when you were little?”
She looked faint when I told her I had. How did she know?
Still in shock, Doris told me that she’d once been my mother’s best friend. She said that my mother -- who’d died 15 years earlier -- had somehow kept her up nearly all the night before, whispering excitedly to her about me. “That’s Bonnie!” she’d said, again and again. “It’s Bonnie!”
Doris then revealed a glossy, page-sized photograph. In it, she and her new husband were running down church steps, dodging the classic hail of rice. And there, in the crowd that lined the steps, was my mother, beaming in a shimmering dress.
Doris let me make a copy, and I have it still.
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