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Marcy is not my real name.
I've been Marcy for 67 years and I have no plans for going back to the original. My parents gave me the name Marcia, (pronounced like Marsha) which was a perfectly nice name - until I was in my mid-teens.
In 1951 Stan Freberg made a record entitled "John and Marsha," described as a comedy single. There was a little music in the background as the man's voice first says, "Marsha." Almost immediately a woman's voice says, "John." Doesn't sound too bad, right? There was no vocalizing, no singing ... only a man and a woman saying each other's names back and forth.
But there were two problems. The first was the way they spoke to each other, escalating anxiously. Excitedly. The listener's imagination ran wild while they spoke softly, then more urgently. They cooed. They giggled. They stretched the names out. And by the very end of the record, John is saying breathlessly, "Maaaarsha, Maaaaaarsha, Maaaaaaaarsha." And she responded, half whispering, "Joohn, Joooohn, Jooooooohn." It was exceedingly embarrassing for any teenager to listen to, especially one named Marcia. The second problem was that I was dating a boy named John.
When the record was first released, I was in the fifth grade and I never heard it. But some Boston disc jockey revived it about six years later - much to my humiliation at the uncertain age of 15. The cat calls in the high school halls were mortifying. Between classes, groups of boys would gather by the lockers so I couldn't tell who was the one teasing, "Maaaaarsha" while another in a girly falsetto would squeal, "Jooohn, oh, Jooooohn." It got so bad I changed my routes between classes.
I think it probably only lasted a few weeks ... it just seemed like forever. I think it finally ended after I was no longer seeing John. The relationship couldn't survive the notoriety. If I remember correctly, he was a perfectly nice, shy kid who was as embarrassed as I was.
And that's when I made the promise to myself. If I ever get out of this town, I'm never going to be Marcia again. Ever. My first day at college, I introduced myself as Marcy and never looked back.
You can pretty much tell my relationship with anyone who calls me Marcia. At high school class reunions, I had to remember that none of them knew who Marcy was and I had to respond to that foreign name all night. Anyone else who calls me by my original name is a relative. Bless my mother. It must have been the hardest for her. After all, she gave me that name and I rejected it. But she was a good sport and called me Marcy. Most of the time.
The whole category of nicknames though, seems to me to be one of affection - usually. My daughter's name is Alix. When she was a little girl, her toddler brother couldn't say Alix but could only manage Aga. It stuck - only in the family - and middle-aged Aga still occasionally signs a card or note, "Ag." It always makes me smile conjuring up those precious childhood memories.
My mother, who in her prime was almost six feet tall, was kiddingly named "Shorty" by my stepdad. He never said it without a smile, and I enjoyed watching her as she reveled in his affection.
Dear Richard's last name is Fisher. When we married, he didn't want me to change my last name - he liked it. And he was right. At my stage of the game, changing Marcy O'Brien to Marcy Fisher was overly complicated. Plus, he simply didn't like the sound of it. He was also a little put off that "Marcia" had to appear on the marriage license, but our actual vows were between Richard and Marcy. Then, as a result of our marriage, another nickname has come about. And again, endearment seemed to be the reason.
Dear Richard has, for much of his life, been tagged "Fish" which he likes just fine. When I come through the front door from errands or appointments, a deep voice greets me fondly, "Good evening, Mrs. Fish." I have to say, I like it. It sounds like home.
Even at my advanced stage of decrepitude, I guess it's never too late to pick up another nickname. Or maybe, just be truly grateful that Mr. Fish's first name is not John.
The award-winning Marcy O'Brien writes in the Dunkirk Observer, the Jamestown Post-Journal and Warren's Times Observer,