I've been named a lot of things in my life: Maisie, a term of endearment my mother stole from Dr. Seuss. Mar, an awkward truncation that was created during summers at sail camp (a shortening that sounded a lot worse than my sister's "Con"). Scotty, M-Scott, Mary, sissy - very rarely do I hear the double appellation that I love so much: Mary Scott.
Why do I love my name? I think John Proctor from "The Crucible" says its best: "Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! How may I live without my name?" OK, maybe that's a little extreme. But there's a lot in this doubling that cannot be captured in any other form.
Mary doesn't have a lot going for her. She is reserved, cautious and over-analytical. She is everything that defines timidity. She gets coffee instead of mocha java, whispers instead of shouts and waits for people so she won't have to tell them to hurry along. I've been Mary quite often in my academic career. It starts with roll call, first day of class. "Tell me if you want to go by something other than what is on the sheet." I brace myself, as I am timid, hesitant and unsure whether or not I should speak up or if maybe Mary for a year really will be OK. "John Hancock, Alicia Hanover, MARY Hardaway." I have a split second to speak up to tell the teacher he had better pin a Scott on the end of that Mary or I will storm out of the classroom. But the Mary in me says nothing.
Scott is different. She is carefree, uninhibited and sees opportunity where Mary only sees obstacles. She gets espresso shots in her coffee even if she doesn't have to stay up all night, because "hey, let's just stay up all night." She never waits around and instead runs ahead, daring everyone around to catch up. She jumps in bodies of water in the middle of the night not shouting her name but wanting to because it is the kind of name that does those sorts of things. The teacher is confused about calling roll because he's never met a girl named Scott but just by looking at her he can see there would be no other name to give her. Scott is never afraid of roll call; she wants everyone to know at the very moment the teacher utters the word, her word, that yes, "I am here."
Mary Scott is an unharmonious pairing. I have to be one, too. How could someone with such conflicting names be anything but? This is why I am so defensive of my name, because it has to be explained. "Yes, you can call me Mary but..." There is a history littered with mutations and funny renderings and misunderstandings about my name. And I can't just leave it behind.
My mother always has been more proud of my name than I ever could be. Maybe it's because she was the one who decided my grandmother's first name and my father's middle name made a great combination. Or maybe it was because she had to repeat my name often so she would not forget that I in fact was Mary Scott and not my twin sister, Connelly. In any case, she taught me to always speak up, to always introduce myself first, and to never, ever let anyone call me simply Mary. "That is not your name."
In elementary school I failed my mother nearly every day. Even when my peers learned my name, they still expected the Mary to respond to their questions and to play with them at recess. She was painfully shy, afraid the world would jump up and swallow her whole any second. I didn't know then what I know now: A name can get you places.
In middle school I explained to everyone the nuance of my name. I was stuck in the bland overwhelming world of prepubescent identity crises; I wanted to stand out. I informed anyone who would listen that, yes, I had two names, but NO, one of them was not my middle name. I do not in fact possess a middle name. I've asked my mother about this before; she just gave me a confused look and said, "Why would you ever need a middle name when you're Mary Scott?"
I took this reaction from my mother and ran with it. In 10th grade I joined the Facebook craze and decided to make my name the main event of my page. I pulled a Cher and became "Mary Scott" on the internet, a girl sans last name, a girl cool enough not to need one.
And then I got to college. It was here that I realized whenever I had any Facebook activity it looked like "Mary" was doing something, not "Mary Scott." So much for fame and big hair. It was here that I realized lots of people have names that differ from the norm, and they all seem to be pretty comfortable with it. So comfortable that it borders on complacency; they do they not entertain the same notion that I do - "It is my name, I cannot have another in my life!" I started thinking that maybe I just should have let every teacher call me Mary, that I should have shoved Scott into the role of middle name, where nothing would be expected from it.
My mother e-mailed me the other day. She is still completely certain that a girl by any other name would not smell as sweet. She, the intuitive person she is, realizes I am confused in college, and not much else. This confusion sometimes makes me forget who I am, what my name is, the power of a name. My mother hasn't forgotten and so she reminds me. In her e-mail she said, "You're a prize Mary Scott, don't forget it." I think only Mary Scott could fully appreciate that.
Mary Scott's column runs bi-weekly Wednesdays. She can be reached at m.hardaway@cavalierdaily.com.
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