Yesterday, I mentioned one part of my heritage. Today, I'll speak of another part, the French side (I'm an American mutt--there are several others in there, too, and the French is by way of Canada). My mom named me, after her aunt Jeannette. Her first choice was “Rose” but my dad vetoed that. I’ve never forgiven him for it.
Because no one gets my name right. I’ve been called, Jane, Jeannie, Jeanine, Jee Anne, Jahne, Joanne (a little amusing since one of my blog friends really is Joanne Fritz), and also yelled at for correcting the person who pronounced it wrong. Maybe I should've taken a page from Stephen Colbert's book and answered: "It's French. Bitch."
It’s ridiculous. There weren’t even any Jeans to confuse me with when I was in high school. Then in college, I was astonished to meet someone with the same name as me (and just to note: she was about twenty years older than me, too). I asked her: “Do people mispronounce your name?” Her answer was a heavy sigh.
It also didn’t help when Christina Aguilera came out with that damn song which I will never, ever name. Every day in eighth grade, people shouted it at me as I walked down the hall. And when I sat down to lunch. And when I was in class studying.
I hated Middle School. How I envied those named Katie, Sarah and Rachel. Everyone knows how to say those names. And they aren’t distinctive enough to be noticed and commented on. I wonder if they ever envied me for having something unpronounceable but unique.
I can’t imagine they would.
