“It ain’t what they call you, it’s what you answer to.”
― W.C. Fields

There’s no cool story about how my parents decided to name me Lynn. My brother and sister have stories about their names, and my mom did, too. I loved to hear these stories when growing up. When I asked about my own, there was often a bit of silence followed by, “Hey, is that a fire over at the neighbor’s house?” or some other mild distraction that works well with a seven-year-old.

Determined to find meaning in my personal brand, I started my research when I was about 11. When my parents made a trip to Vintage Faire mall, I’d beg to spend time in B Dalton’s bookstore while they were in some nearby shop. After looking over the new fiction titles to make me seem like a normal bookworm, I’d make my way back to the baby name books. I’d sit down on the cold, dusty tile floor and pull out the spines of the ones that seemed to offer the most hope. Very few had much to say on the origin; most entries linked the name to other combinations (Marilyn, Evelyn, Carolyn) or as a derivative of Linda. I’d pull out the next book, hoping to find more of a provenance. No luck. Once I found reference to a Gaelic word meaning “lake” or “waterfall.” That sounded good. After a while, I’d lose feeling in my legs, my ass would get cold, and my hope would be dashed. I wonder what ran through the mind of any clerk who saw this pre-teen girl sprawled on the floor surrounded by baby naming books, quickly shoving them back onto the shelf when her impatient mother came looking for her.

At some point I decided to check the dictionary at home. I found there was an exotic place called Lynn, Massachusetts. I bet it had a waterfall. And a beautiful reflective pool of water. I imagined that someday I would visit my city and have a mystical experience where my true calling would be revealed in a vision. Kinda like the Lady of the Lake presenting Excalibur to King Arthur. But with more drama.

While I was growing up in the 70s, Lynn Swan was a big name in football, and football was a big deal in our house. My dad used to manage travel for the Oakland Raiders, so I was required to root for the silver and black. And I did … except when the Pittsburgh Steelers were playing. Because then I would see my name spelled out, in actual letters, on TV! Holy cow, that was awesome. It was like I was famous! I wasn’t, clearly. But my name was up there and being talked about by people who made a lot of money. Sure, ok, it belonged to a guy. And yes, he was a top athlete at the peak of his career, and I could barely pass the President’s Fitness Test at school. Alright, he was also African-American. Other than that, though, I totally identified with him.

There were never any characters in TV shows or cartoons named Lynn. No books with heroines named Lynn. I used to check stores that sold chotskies, keychains, and other personalized items to see if they had my name. It usually skipped from Linda to Louise to May. People would often tell me that their middle name was Lynn. Wow, great, so the name that probably only got called out when their mother was mad at them was the same as mine. My grandmother made a ceramic mug for me and painted my name on it. She spelled it with an “e” on the end but it was close!

I’ve always liked the name Amanda. Amanda Lynn. Kinda musical, don’t you think?

I’m going to start ending my blog posts with writing prompts. I’ve been scouring books for ideas that spark my imagination, and I haven’t found any that really resonate with me. So I decided that I’d try to create my own and share them.

Today’s writing prompt: what’s the story behind your name? Have you ever gone through a time where you had to change your name or reclaim what it means to you?