What's in a name?

The question of identity

I write this with a sense of trepidation. Fear of who might see it. I don’t want to hurt anyone.

The thing is I’ve long thought I might have the wrong name.

I’m not even talking about my married name, this strange festive moniker I carry around, saddled with to the point my sons reach adulthood, or until they won’t take the removal of their surname as a personal assault. Maybe never?

I’m referring to my Christian name. My first name. Holly.

Even typing it out feels alien. I don’t type it, unless required. I stare at the haughty H, all regal and steadfast, the gaping O, shouty and attention seeking, then those L’s, so ostentatious, not happy with one, needing to repeat themselves, just to be clear. The Y tucked up under the previous letters, coquettish, hugging, girlie. Like a tendril of hair cutely wrapped behind an ear. Yuck.

And yes I am definitely over thinking it, for sure.

Years ago I briefly dated a man who slightly broke my heart. Funny how the ones you barely know can do that. He let me into his world, napped as I baked him carrot cake in his Notting Hill kitchen. A disaster; no scales. He was interested and interesting. I was smitten. And then he dropped me from a great height, via text, on a work trip to Cape Town. He said I was gauche. I didn’t even know what that meant.

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Now maybe I am gauche. I’ve been accused of worse. I can’t help but feel that if my name were Elizabeth or Penelope or Catherine then gauche would be a word applied to other people. Not me. But being a Holly, it feels open season for insults. It’s a name for girls who push to the front at the bar, for the ones who speak a little too loudly in public, for those who wear a suit that scratches and itches their skin. It’s that kind of a name. Holly can be fun, but not demure. Definitely a bit Marmite. Better in small doses. Gauche.

I don’t see the name Holly and identify with it. Just this morning I viewed an Instagram story with a sticker that bore my name. The visual jarred with me. I didn’t like it. Is this self loathing? I don’t think so. I don’t hate myself. I don’t especially love myself either, being British after all. Kind of somewhere in the middle, depending on the day. It’s more that the name doesn’t feel like mine. I don’t remember always feeling this way. Perhaps it’s a response to being Mummy/Mumma/Mum for over 16 years. Does Holly still exist? Do I want her to? The person I was before this Act feels distant. Where did you go to Holly?

Now here’s a curveball. I wasn’t supposed to be called Holly. I was all set to be a Rebecca, which given my parents have R names would have made for a comedic trio. The three R’s - we could have started a band. My mother made the mistake of telling a pregnant pal her plan for the baby should it be a girl. The friend gave birth first and stole the name, I was born (to everyone’s surprise) a girl, a new name suggested to my mother and the rest is history. Whilst this might explain some of the dissonance, I’m not sure I’m a Rebecca either. Or a Becky. Or a Becca. Or a Becs. Rebs? I used to have a Client called Rebs. Super cool. I’m definitely not a Rebs then.

As for the man who named me gauche, well he did very well for himself. He married a Melissa. Of course he did! Bet she’s not a Mel. Probably an Issa. Oh, and he’s extremely successful in the furniture world, owner of a brand with terribly similar branding to Innocent Smoothies. Imagine shamelessly ripping off another brand’s voice. How gauche!

What about you? Do you like you name? Tell me please.

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