Who was I way back when I was growing up?

            I was baptized Teresa Louise Haack, but everyone called me Terry. My older brother went by Billy and my younger sister by Deborah (no nickname for her). The thing that annoyed me, once I understood that I was Terry, not Teresa, because my mother wanted my name to imitate my brother’s, I became angry. You see, even my nickname wasn’t my own, but rather a copy of someone else’s.

            When I did something wrong, which was often, I’d be summoned first as Terry, then Terry Lou, or if it was really, really bad, by my entire name. Since I could tell the severity of my offense by the name my mother (it was always her!) used, I knew, generally, what punishment to expect. The full three names meant a thrashing was coming when my dad arrived from work. The belt on my backside or a thorough shaking, his hands gripped tightly on my arms, whipping my body back and forth, back and forth.

            No wonder I hated my full name.

            At school, every teacher initially addressed me as Teresa. I was too shy to ask to be called Terry. Back in the fifties you just didn’t do that.

            In first grade there was a girl who called me Terry. She was kind. We played together during recess and lunch. I really liked her, but when I asked my mom to do my hair in braids, many, many braids, my parents, or at least my dad, called the school and demanded that I be kept away from the girl. That wasn’t my first awareness of my parents’ prejudice, but it was the most hurtful.

            There were two girls who lived on our street that I was sometimes allowed to play with. Their parents called me Teresa; the girls did also. I hated it. The girls were mean to me, but it took me a long time to realize it. They played fun games on one of their front lawns, until I’d come over. Whatever they’d been doing switched to wheelbarrow.

In case you don’t know what that is: One girl lies on the ground. She raises herself up on her elbows. The other girls grab the first by her ankles and life. Done correctly, it resembles a wheelbarrow. It also exposes the first girl’s bottom.

When I realized the girls were making fun of me, my face crimsoned and I begged to be let go. They refused. They pushed me around and around the yard until my arms collapsed. I never went back across the street.

            In my mind, Teresa sounds all girly and conjures a picture of someone wearing frilly dresses and Mary Jane shoes. That wasn’t me. I wore a uniform jumper to school until seventh grade. Back then we didn’t wear shorts underneath, so on a windy day, my whatevers could be seen clear across the playground. Granny panties. White or almost white. No slip.

I got teased about that! In fact, one time in fourth grade when I was called to the teacher’s desk for a poor grade (not the first or the last), a boy slid out of his seat and lay down on the floor. I froze. If I stepped around him, he could see up my jumper. But he was in the middle, making himself as large as he could. That meant I’d have to straddle his body, giving him the view.

The teacher, a nun whose name I have forgotten, clicked her wooden thing at me, waved me forward with her hand, and when I tried to explain, said something like “Teresa Lousie Haack, get up here now.”

I had no choice. The boy laughed hilariously but didn’t get in trouble. He proceeded to tell everyone that he’d seen my panties.

Teresa Louise Haack was the school’s pariah. Because of exposing my underwear, no one wanted anything to do with me.

When I transferred to the public middle school, I told my teachers that I wanted to be called Terry. They refused, saying that my legal name was Teresa and that’s what they’d call me and what I’d better put on my papers.

At home I was Terry, the tomboy. I wore t-shirts, shorts and pedal-pushers when they became popular. I skated in our garage, around and around and around. I rode my bike for miles around our house. I played baseball with the boys when my brother needed someone to practice with.

We set up a badminton net in the backyard, as well as croquet and a wiffle ball diamond. My dad found a used swing set for free, which he installed in the backyard. Yes, we had a really huge yard!

Terry was an athlete. Terry could hit a baseball further than her brother. I ran faster than him as well. I was so good at badminton that after we moved to California, Teresa played on the high school team. Yes, back to Teresa.

Terry also played basketball, better than my brother. I could throw and catch a football better than most boys. Unfortunately, girls weren’t allowed on the boys’ teams, so Teresa had to sit on the sidelines, knowing that Terry was better than almost every boy on the field.

Every college application was for Teresa, as was my scholarship and grants. Most of my professors called me Teresa, but my roommates (I had several over the years) all knew me as Terry.

By now girls could wear pants to school. No more stupid dresses or skirts for me! I made my own pants from bright, colorful patterns, none of which would be considered girlie.

Even though I seldom went home, I still heard my full name whenever I disappointed my parents. On phone calls, every week, they berated Teresa for all the ways in which she’d angered them.

At home I was still the shy, reserved, isolated Teresa, but when away at college, I was learning how to be a fun-loving Terry.

My two distinct personalities often clashed. At home sometimes I’d forget to be invisible, while at college I’d fail to ask to be called Terry.

Teresa struggled with academics: Terry did not.

Teresa sometimes got poor grades and had to drop classes: Terry got straight As even though she had to study until early morning.

Teresa joined a sorority. Terry dropped out.

After college graduation, I couldn’t find work near my college, so I had to move back home. I was back to being Teresa/Terry.

Teresa wasn’t allowed to drive the car unless my brother didn’t need it. Terry took her younger sister on scenic drives through the countryside and to movies. Teresa applied to jobs and was rejected over and over. Teresa was over-qualified due to her degree in Russian Languages and Literature. Terry lacked secretarial skills.

Terry wasn’t dignified enough to work in an office filing papers (my only skill!)

Teresa got hired by the federal government. I was a field worker, so Teresa was the one who knocked on doors. After a while, I found that I liked having a formal “work” identity very different from the Terry who bowled in two different leagues.

The work person went by Terry in the office, but only called that by her coworkers. The one who bought a car and rented her first apartment was Teresa.

The person who wrote checks and completed legal forms was Teresa. Terry went on her first backpacking trip (with ancient, heavy equipment that someone else had to carry up the mountain). She also went on a college ski trip, but nearly gave herself frostbite because Terry didn’t buy warm enough boots.

Teresa was the careful, cautious part of my persona: Terry was the risktaker.

Throughout my teaching career, forms were signed by Teresa but my coworkers called me Terry. Teresa led meetings and gave presentations to the faculty of the combined middle school and high school teachers. Terry took her students to the computer lab.

Teresa was the formal person, Terry the enthusiastic one.

Terry was what my husband-to-be called me, but during our wedding ceremony, the priest asked Teresa to recite her vows. That threw me off-balance for a second, but then I smiled, wanting Teresa to be the one getting married.

Even today, at my ripe old age, I carry both monikers. When querying agents for one of my books, I am Teresa. I want them to know that I am female writing about female issues. Yet when I participate in an in-person pitch session, I introduce myself as Terry.

Terry smiles and acts friendly. Terry speaks enthusiastically about her work. But my nametag at conferences always says Teresa. Oh, well.

Over the years I learned to accept my different persons, my different names. My kids know me as Terry, although they still call me Mom (they’re all over forty!)

Church friends only call me Terry. Same with my husband’s family. My brother, however, only addresses me as Teresa, no matter how many times I’ve corrected him (I think it’s a dominance thing, a power thing, for him.)

When I am forced to state my complete name, I have no choice but to say Teresa Louise Connelly. It’s the same one I use to write checks and sign credit card charges. Oh, and tax documents.

I finally got Kaiser to call me Terry. When Teresa Connelly would be summoned to the doctor’s office, my skin would prickle and I’d want to look around for my parents. Terry is a strong, independent woman, something Teresa never became.

Everyone, or almost everyone, has carried multiple versions of themselves over the extent of their lives. But I am willing to bet, that most don’t look over their shoulders, expecting a blow or a slap or a kick or a punch when their childhood name pops up.

I am Terry Connelly. No Terry Lou or Teresa Louise, jut Terry.

And I like it that way.