For a while, my parents expected me to be a boy before I was born. The doctors couldn’t get a very clear ultrasound. They couldn’t pin down a due date either, for that matter. It was changed a few times, the first two weeks earlier than the second. I showed up a day after the third date, somewhere between the other two. Had I been a boy, I would have been called Eric Henry Dab*******—Eric, after my parents’ dear friend from college, the renowned composer Eric Ewazen, and Henry, after my dad’s father.
But I wasn’t a boy, so I was named Emily Llewellyn—Emily, a pretty but arbitrary choice at my Aunt Debby’s suggestion, and Llewellyn, my great-grandmother’s maiden name. Debby liked it in part because “have you ever met an Emily who isn’t nice?” It’s nice to know my name was chosen, in part, because of it’s attributed niceness.
***
I learned to spell my last name by listening to my mom spell it over the phone. “D as in dog, A, B as in boy, C as in cow,” she’d begin, and “*-*-*-*-*-*,” I’d finish for her.
On my first day of pre-school Safety School, I met with my teacher to fill out my nametag. It was laminated and shaped like a yellow school bus with a long string of navy yarn to tie around my neck. She asked my name and I started spelling, but hesitated when I got to the Z. Having grown used to reciting the letters almost as a mantra, it was hard for me to spell slowly. I quietly repeated, “Z” to myself as I thought about what came next, but my teacher misunderstood and wrote a second Z on my nametag. Recognizing the mistake, but not wanting to make a fuss, I didn’t correct her. It was written in permanent marker, and I think even as a 6-year old I figured it wasn’t really worth the trouble.
I never told my mom about the mistake. Somehow Dabc*z*****, with two Zs, made me uncomfortable and embarrassed, and I didn’t want Mom to think I couldn’t spell my own name. I consoled myself by pretending I was wearing someone else’s nametag, and threw away the offensive laminated school bus on my way out of the classroom after graduation from the course.
***
My mom was friends with my dad for ten years before they dated. She liked to use my dad’s name as an example of the kind she didn’t want to inherit with marriage. Famous last words, I guess. As it is, it took her almost twenty years to change her professional name from Diane G**** to Diane Dab*******.
***
Before we moved to New York when I was in 5th grade, I had never met another girl named Emily before. There was a small handful of Emilys at my middle school, maybe two or three at my first high school. It made me feel kind of special, especially with the abundance of Kyles, Katies, and Sarahs in my various classes. I didn’t feel like I was just one of many, classmates didn’t have to use my last name when they talked about me.
There were six Emilys in my graduating class at my Utah high school. They all looked a lot alike—blonde hair, olive skin, perfectly straight and white teeth, stunning—or in other words, not like me. They were all very nice.
***
My parents taught me a game to help teach others how to pronounce my last name, since the cz rarely fails to confuse. Dab, like a dab of paint, C***, like your face, ***, like the sport. Dab-c***-***. I’m lucky my Polish name is as relatively simple as it is, despite groaning about its difficulty. I guess it’s easier to take a stab in the dark with Dab*******, though I don’t see why it’s especially terrifying.
It really annoys me when people look at it and laugh. Sometimes they say things like, “Well I’m not even going to try that!” or “I’m glad that’s not my name!” I don’t know why people think it’s okay to say things like that to me. I’m glad it’s my name. I’ve never known anything different. You could only be so lucky to have it as your name too.
When I was in 8th grade, my Irish dance instructor registered me for the North Eastern Regional competition as Emily Debohinski. He never learned to spell my name in the four years I worked with him, much less how to pronounce it. I think he liked playing dumb, like if he learned how to say it, even, the joke would be finished and we wouldn’t have anything to laugh over anymore. I went along with it because really, what choice did I have? It made me feel bad, though, like he didn’t actually respect me or the hard work I did. Since then, I have always made it a point to respectfully learn how to pronounce peoples’ names. I feel like it’s the least I can do.
***
I kind of pride myself on the fact that I have four Ls in my middle name. It’s useful to have when I have to tell a new class something unique about myself. A lot of people don’t know it’s a last name since it sounds like it should be spelled like Luellen.
I heard once that Llewellyn is to Wales like Smith is to the United States, but I did some online searching to confirm that idea, only to find it’s not so common after all, only ancient. Apparently it was a popular name among medieval Welsh princes and is derived from the Welsh word llew, meaning lion. There’s a lion on the Welsh flag. Maybe I have royal blood in my veins.
**
*
I never really had a nickname growing up, outside the family.
I kind of envied
Tyler, known as
JB, and Josh, known as
Smurf.
I even envied people known exclusively by their last names, though I never really understood the appeal—it has always seemed impersonal to me.
It was ironic when the boys at church started calling me
Little C****** when I turned fourteen.
My dad was the young men’s program advisor and they fondly called him
C******, though I’m still not convinced there wasn’t a hint of mockery in it too.
Having a nickname, especially a variation of my last name, especially a derivation of my dad’s nickname, validated me and made me feel a part of a larger whole. I’m not entirely sure why, because even at the time, I sensed a certain patronization behind it. I secretly mourned the loss of it when we left New York and I left that circle of friends. Only one of them calls me C****** anymore. I smile over it, and I don’t miss it anymore.
Most of my friends started calling me EmDab when I created a new email address for myself as a freshman at BYU. I’ve since closed that account, but the name stuck, and even people I don’t know particularly well call me EmDab, all one word, the capital D implied when spoken. I don’t really mind it. It’s memorable and certainly singular, but it’s become almost meaningless. I suppose the term nickname doesn’t necessarily equate to pet name.
***
Dab******* is an uncommon name, even in Poland. Recently, I’ve only seen seven Dab*******s listed on any kind of official record in the USA—I live with three of them. I found there is a Polish author called Zbigniew Dab*******. I’d love to get in touch with him, since we must be cousins of some kind.
Cz** is a noun meaning “act; action; doing; or deed,” and ski supposedly implies ancient royalty. I wonder what my ancestors would think of me, the product of two royal lines. Would they be proud? Would they be hopeful? I think they would be probably hopeful. I mean, everyone knows how powerful Welsh and Polish royalties are in their own rights. Combine the two? Forget about it.
***
I really like it when people use my name.
I think it’s easier to speak to others without using their names, for some reason—I know I fall into that habit sometimes, too.
I feel more appreciated when a person calls me
Emily, even just in passing.
I thrill when I find someone I admire has learned my name, like a favorite professor or talented colleague.
As a young teenager, I read in some teen magazine that you can tell if a guy likes you because he’ll find it difficult to say your name.
Since then I’ve always been sensitive when attractive men call me by my name, my full name, not just a nickname.
In turn, I try to use names when I speak to people.
Maybe they’re not so thoughtful about these things, but then again, they might be.
***
Someone asked me last month if I wasn’t happy by the prospect of someday acquiring an “easier” name by marriage. She was surprised when I told her I plan to legally keep my full name, Emily Llewellyn Dab*******, and add my new last name to the end of it. I don’t want to give up Llewellyn or Dab*******, and I’d rather have an awkward social security card than lose a piece of my identity.
Here’s hoping I don’t marry a Yablonowitz.
You can depend on a clothespin appearing at some point.
Yes, I get to marry a Laurie. Not Christian Bale, perhaps, but I'm sure mine will do.
Lizzy Taylor is my inspiration, being a dark-haired girl in a light wig.
