I need to change my name. I used to just want to, but now I need to.
As a confused tomboy, influenced by the styles of Molly Ringwald and Bridget Fonda, I wanted to change my name to something androgynous and cool like the characters they portrayed. Something like Mitchell or Bradley (I know, you hate them too). My mother wouldn’t have it and tagged me with the nickname Beki, and had me spell it just that way: B.E.K.I…I yearned for the Y that would enable me to have fun with cursive, and let me cap off my name with a loopy Y, housing a smiley face inside of course.
But this never happened. I went through life defending Beki, because, well, Beki was nothing like Becky. Beki was a bad ass athlete who could dive on the floor and take a punch, whereas Becky twirled her hair and played with glitter. Beki beat up Becky in between piano lessons and basketball practice.
As a twenty-something adult I’ve restored Rebecca because she’s professional and respectable, and you’d never buy a house from a Beki the way you would a Rebecca. Lucky for me I’m not in real estate.
So I’ve developed a taste for this Rebecca Brown girl. When I first started writing I went by R.L.Brown, a low-budget knock-off of the great Sir Stine. I’ve since dropped the L like Diddy and have rediscovered Rebecca Brown, which for all intents and purposes, is sufficient. Her name doesn’t pop off the page the way other notable journalist’s names do. It’s clear that she’s not an heiress to Kraft, and she doesn’t hail from an exotic island off the coast of Italy. She’s Rebecca Brown, and she probably came from Milwaukee. Or Idaho.
For whatever reason, I’ve spent the past two years being called Rachel by physicians, colleagues, and everyone in between. I now respond to queries for Rachel, because apparently we share the same email address. And ultimately, I’m curious who she is. Am I Rachel? Have I denounced Rebecca so many times that you don’t see her anymore? Who is she, and when do she and Beki get to duke it out in the alley?
