I Just Needed a Y

The journey to finding my true identity.

My sisters and I tore through the lobby, racing to be first to open the door, though no one really wanted to go first. It was the dentist's office. When I saw her name on the brown, folded plastic plate, I knew instantly that Y, placed just so, had to be the ticket to EVERYTHING.

I was in a season of hating my name. Jane. Ick. I mean, come on, my best friend’s dog shared the same name. Nothing felt exciting about being a Jane in 1977. Plain Jane was in its heyday.

I’d already tired of the short-lived embrace of my core tomboy name switch to Bobby. It turned out to be a lot harder than I’d imagined, ignoring my family addressing me as Janey when clearly I was Bobby. I had loathed the baby name of my youth, Janey. I needed pizazz. Something to match my goal of being a professional disco dancer when I grew up.

That nameplate changed everything. I mean, clearly, she was living her best life as the receptionist for Dr. Bartelt, D.D.S., in an office within walking distance of the Boy Blue; what more could she need?

And shortly after that dental cleaning, where it was probably discovered I had yet another cavity, my new identity was born. Goodbye Jane, hello JaYne. Life was about to really get good. But then my parents announced they were getting a divorce, and a few months later, my sisters, my mom, and I headed 90 miles west to an entirely new city to really amp up the freerange, latchkey, unsupervised childhood that made the three of us. Jayne would have to wait to debut. She wasn’t ready.

My sisters and I were all given somewhat formal first names at birth, but were called by our middle names. Three girls, six names, who the heck are these kids? My parents were so ahead of their time. Also, thanks, Steve and Betsy, for making my life so much more confusing than it ever needed to be. When I was already struggling with my plain Jane name, I had to explain why I wasn’t Liz, Beth, Liza, Betsy, or any other nickname you just tried to invent for me before ever even meeting me, to every professional I crossed paths with.

Elizabeth Jane, Janey, was being put to bed. Madison, WI, required something far more edgy than Janey.

I was now E.J.

That would fix everything.

Except when my new friends called our apartment and asked to speak to E.J., and my sisters would pretend they had no idea who that was. Can’t I just embrace a whole new identity as I cope with my childhood trauma? Being the middle child is a completely different story; I’ll share it with you another time.

Reader, she lasted seven months. E.J.

My mom moved us back to where we almost came from. In her head, it was the same thing, next village over, same suburban vibe. In ours, it was Mars. We just wanted our friends back. In hindsight, I know she tried. But damned if we weren’t starting over again in a whole new school district, for the umpteenth time.

It was time to roll out my new identity. 5th grade, halfway through the year, when pre-teens are certainly not accepting applications for new friends. That calls for the big guns. Jane would not carry the weight. E.J. was way too hard. Bobby would never work. But if I show up with a Y in the middle of my name, that just might be the ticket in. Also, if you’re really good at lying and making shit up, that will help tremendously. I’m just saying, if someone asks you at recess, in between Four Square and Double Dutch, “Weren’t you in an M&M’s commercial?” And you run with it. You might have some friends by lunchtime the next day.

Jayne stuck. I’m pretty sure it’s what my parents meant to put on my birth certificate. So decades later, after I no longer wished to be associated with the same last name as my ex-husband, I made it permanent. Best $100 bucks I ever spent. She became street legal, birth name with the proper addition of a Y, maiden name intact, and I knew my life was finally beginning. Jayne never looked back.