I haven’t always hated my name, Diane, (pronounced Dee-Anne). As a toddler, I was labeled “DiDi.” As I grew older, depending on the situation, it metamorphosed into “Dids” or “that darn child!” In fact, if I recall correctly, my name being mispronounced hardly competed with the incessant urge to play or read, until an older sibling alerted me to the fact, that each and every occurrence was, if not a heinous crime, at least a slight of indecent proportions.

What was a ten-year-old to do? Being the youngest of eight, my place in the family hierarchy was set. I should be seen and not heard, always listen to my elders and when told to jump, the only acceptable response was, “How high?” I had jurisdiction over the backyard chickens, one of the dogs, three cats (if one can ever have jurisdiction over a cat) and my imaginary friends.

I felt ill-equipped, rightfully so by the angst of the years that followed, to handle an assertive role. Introductions became the bane of my existence, as every new mispronunciation ate at my pride. Was not acquiescence a sure sign of low self-esteem? In my defense, I do recall timidly correcting an adult or two, but alas my hard-won assertiveness dissipated, when my brave utterances appeared to have no effect.

A brainstorm during High School resulted in my writing Deanne on my class papers, until my 11th grade English teacher gently explained the inherent illegalities to me. This pattern continued until around age twenty-two, when tired of acquiescing outwardly and castigating myself inwardly, I made a decision. I did what any self-respecting, self-confessed coward would do. I made the decision to change my name.

Since I felt that a legal name change would be hurtful and/or disrespectful to my parents, I settled for the derivative, “Dee.” That decision coincided with the aftermath of a date-rape incident; as a result, I saw that name change as part of my new “take charge” persona. I took martial arts classes, pumped iron and developed a new “attitude.” Vic-who-tim? Not I, ever again!

Two years ago, while chatting with a Minister I met online, we exchanged names and I mentioned that I’d always disliked my name and why. He asked me what my name meant and I hesitantly admitted that I didn’t know. He did a quick search online and within five minutes, I had a new lease on life!

My name meant Divine! Divine! Can you believe it! Suddenly, my whole life began to make sense. Here I’d been repudiating the name that explained me…to me. I’d recently learned in one of my Bible classes that the naming of a child in Biblical times took a bit of thought. Not because of the need for a different sounding name, or a name that would perpetuate the ego of the parent, but a name that would call forth or predict, if you will, the character of the child.
I’d always been a bit out of step, not quite in synch with my peers. I’d always felt I didn’t quite fit the mold. Now, I’d come full circle. The same way I’d hated, denigrated, denied and dismissed my name and in essence myself. In the same manner I’d dismissed God’s call to service, as imaginary delusions of grandeur.

Why would God want to use me? I was damaged, despoiled goods, wasn’t I? In fact my exact words were, “Preach? I sing, that’s what I do!” Despite my many attempts to explain to God why He’d really made a mistake this time, upon hearing what my name meant, I figure, God had the last laugh after all.

I was a breech birth baby and a confused one at that. Not only was I facing the wrong direction, I was intent on continuing my journey in the wrong direction, apparently unwilling to experience new birth. Although I’d heard many recountings of my birth through the power of prayer, firmly set in my pattern of parallelism, the more life threw my way the further I ran, in the wrong direction. But no matter how far or fast I ran physically, mentally, emotionally and/or spiritually, the inescapable fact remained, I was destined to serve from birth.

At this point, you’re probably expecting a triumphant announcement that from that point onward, I’ve never introduced myself as “Dee” again and proudly embraced my birth name “Diane.” Not quite, but what I will say is that while I’ve become more at ease in my spirit, my calling, and my name, a habit of twenty-seven years, is not easily erased in two years.

I can’t help but wonder had I known from childhood that Diane meant Divine; would it have made a difference in the way I perceived myself? I’d like to think so.

Copyright (c) 2005, D.S. White