“What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”
– William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
When my mother was sixteen her fever from pneumonia was so high the doctor didn’t expect her to make it through the night.
In desperation her Irish, Catholic father went out and bought a three foot high ceramic statue of Saint Thérèse.
In the night, delirious from fever my mother woke and saw St. Thérèse throwing her rose petals.
The fever broke the next morning.
My mother promised to name one of her children after the saint who saved her life.
I am that child.
I hated my name. Too feminine for the tomboy I was. Always on adventures, pedaling my bike with my skinny legs, jumping from roof tops, beating boys in sports, I insisted on being called Terry.
Then when I was twenty-nine on a solo trip in Ireland the bus driver asked my name.
Terry.
Did you say Cherry?
No, Terry.
Och, what kind of name is that for a girl? What’s your real name?
Therese.
Ah, Therese, now that’s a grand name.
From the moment you get off this bus you’ll go by Therese. Understand that young lady?
Ok, I’ll do it in memory of you.
I stepped off the bus and a new me was born.
A me who grew into her name, who softened, and wore dresses and didn’t try to beat the boys – quite as hard.
I asked everyone to call me Therese.
But my mother refused. “You’ll always be Terry to me.”
When I came home from my trip I wasn’t solo.
I brought my Italian lover back with me.
My mother insisted I end the relationship because he was a poser and no good for me.
I refused.
My mother told me she was done being my mother, “I can’t do this anymore. Don’t call me Mom. Call me Lill.”
I refused.
So we decided not to call each other anything for a while.
I moved to San Diego with the Italian lover, a relationship that didn’t last very long.
He was after all a poser and no good for me.
After a while my mother and I spoke to each other again.
Hi Mom.
Hi Terry.
I never called her Lill.
She never called me Therese.
