Just Don't Call Me Suzie

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

My birth certificate lists my legal name as Suzanne Brenda Martinson. This same birth certificate lists my mother’s address but not my father’s (because in 1968 mommies and daddies were presumed to live together) and only has a box for Father’s Occupation (because in 1968 to list mommy’s job as “Mommy” would have been redundant and nobody cared if she had another job anyway).

Clearly, in 1968 I was born into bigger problems than just my given legal name. But for purposes of efficiency, I will — in the words of my high school English teacher who knew my capacity to wander off — Stick to the point, Martinson.

I have never felt like my last name was actually mine. Instead, it was as if I were playing a game of word association anytime it was said aloud: “Martinson?” the teacher took role, “Here!” I said, a picture of my father popping into my head. I understood that people needed to alphabetize me, put me in phone books, write out checks to, call me into the principal’s office over the loudspeaker, and so on. Still, my last name became like a permanent nametag that I wore strictly for utilitarian purposes, no meaning attached. This wasn’t something I did consciously, I just didn’t feel like a Martinson. Maybe because last names (especially in my generation) seemed so male, so owned, as if the book that would become my life was titled before I could even write the first word: Martinson, Thy Will Be Done!

This wasn’t a major source of contention for me growing up. In fact, just the opposite. I cared so little about what my last name was that when I was too young to get married but did it anyway married my first husband, I took his name without a second thought. It wasn’t because I felt any less owned by another male, any less like another chapter in my book was being written but the title had changed to Marzilli, Thy Will Still Be Done! But now at least when my last name was called I didn’t have to think of my father anymore. Then when my new husband started calling me Suzie, which he thought fit better with my new last name and had it inscribed in gold lettering on a King James Bible he had given me as a gift (I was not Christian but he tried extra hard to make me so), I simply copied my mother’s way of coping and resigned myself with an attitude of “I don’t know what I want so I’ll let you tell me what that is.”

Did I like the name Suzie? Pretty as it was inscribed in gold on a bible that I would never read? At the time I did, but only because it brought my husband joy, which meant it brought his God joy, and considering what a blasphemous and sinful girl I was in his church’s eyes, I took whatever opportunity to bring happiness wherever I could. Besides, I’m pretty sure his God only knew me as Suzie, so nowadays I get to plead the fifth when it comes to admitting whether that girl and the woman I am today are actually the same person.

When I got divorced the first time, I didn’t consider changing my name back because a) I didn’t want to be a Martinson anymore and b) I was ill-equipped at that young age to deal with the scowls of old women if I were to have a different last name than my child. But then I met my second husband and had the title of my book changed yet again, and this is the last name I still hold today: Quintana, pronounced “Keen-tah-nah.” Initially, I loved my new surname. It had a quality to it that rolled off the tongue, especially when said by anyone with a Spanish accent. Of course, my first name also sounded better with the accent, phonetically exchanging the hardness of the “z” to a soft “s” and ending with a lilting “ahhh” (Su-sah-nah). The second man I’d married said my name with such poetry, such romance, it was as if each time he uttered it he was standing below my window and serenading me with song (as it turned out I wasn’t the only window he was standing under, but I digress…). And due to the fact that for much of our marriage it was usually him introducing me to others, I simply became Suzanna Quintana without any effort on my behalf.

The tricky part, however, came in reintroducing myself to all who had known me during marriage to all those I met once I’d rejoined the Land of the Living (aka: post second divorce). Since I am a writer, I had already used Suzanna Quintana on a variety of previously published work, plus I did like the ring it had to it even though it still was void of any emotional connection. But then I went to my 30th high school reunion and I was Suzanne-with-a-gringo-accent all over again and glad to be so, hoping that the problem had now been solved. But it wasn’t since in our current world of social media and online publications where my writing is out for all to see, the main question I get nowadays is “So would you rather I call you Suzanna or Suzanne?”

Good question. Can I answer to both? Can you call me Suzanne if you knew me back then? Or if you’re German (like my mother)? Or if you want to? And can you call me Suzanna if you say it in a Spanish accent? Or if you knew me between 1997–2013? Or if you’re an editor or publisher or agent and know me only by my writing and you think it works for selling books? Or, again, if you want to?

The truth is, I don’t know. What I do know is that I’ve put way too much thought into all of this. I’ve tried getting all mystic and meaningful about my first and last name and why it should matter. But with all my attempts at a connection to the greater meaning in a name, I’m always brought back to the same end of the maze where the sign says, “Who fucking cares?”

After all that wasted thought, however, here is what I have come away with:

– Suzanna/Suzanne: I will answer to both. I have an E ending on all things legal. I have an A ending on all things I write/publish and it’s also my email address, which is super fun whenever I’m giving my billing information and I have to explain why my credit card and email have different spellings. Super fun.

– Quintana: Presently my legal last name and the last name of my two youngest children, so I can keep it for now. There are a lot of people with this last name who are probably great people, so I just associate it with them instead of my ex, whom I have since taken off as the title maker to any chapters of my life.

Some other interesting facts about my first name include that it’s Hebrew and means “graceful lily,” which symbolizes humility and devotion. Okay sure, I’ll take that. Lilies are also the favorite flower of funerals since they symbolize a restored innocence after death. I guess I’m cool with that too. But who am I kidding? I’ve never even liked lilies, or funerals, or death, so this is just another shot in the dark that didn’t land and left me feeling unattached once again. It’s like I’m that baby bird in Are You My Mother? who is so desperate for answers in its search for self that even a cow or a bulldozer starts to make sense.

What does hold meaning for me is the man who named me, and I’m not talking about my father but instead my mom’s first love, Harry Belafonte, whom my mother was listening to one sunny California afternoon singing his rendition of Suzanne when she was pregnant with me. Honestly, though, I’m far more smitten with the original by Leonard Cohen, which I have on an LP and listen to often when I’m feeling wistful and poetic.

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river. You can hear the boats go by, you can spend the night beside her. And you know that she’s half crazy, but that’s why you want to be there…

There is something about this song that feels like home, maybe because I’m the type of girl who would totally have a place by a river, but also because I’m only half crazy, which is good news. And since I’ve spent more years than not of my life thus far searching for that special connection to self, for that deeper meaning of why, how, what, and who I am, I tend to grab on and hold tight to those connections since they are indeed rare.

As it turned out, Waylon Jennings, of all people, was also searching for me:

Something whispered in the wind, she ain’t coming home

Looking for Suzanne…

It seems this search for me is about all we had in common, though, unless you count that time when I was in fifth grade and we lived in a mobile home outside the truckstop my parents owned and Waylon Jennings was a favorite to play on the jukebox in the restaurant.

The Hollies, Journey, Lou Reed, even John Mellencamp sang my name, in which case you might first assume “What’s the big deal, that’s a common enough name?” in which case you would be wrong. It is a common name if you include all the misspellings of it like Susan or Sue, which are wholly different names and not interchangeable in the least, especially to troubled girls like myself who just want to be called by their right fucking name.

…as soon as I can figure out exactly what that name is, of course.

I realize I’m making too much of this. Maybe I’m resorting back to that girl who just wants everyone to be happy and chill the fuck out, so I start feeling bad or guilty or stupid for not having a definitive answer to what my name is and how it’s spelled. I was raised to be a nice girl, a good girl, aka: a girl who only had nice and good things to say and if I didn’t have something nice or good to say I needed to keep that shit to myself.

If it wasn’t bad enough, if my interchangeable ending of my first name and my irrelevant last name weren’t enough to cause me a sufficient amount of grief, then get the Lorazepam ready if the conversation somehow turns to “Do you have a middle name?”

Do I have a middle name? the nurse at the gynecologist’s office wants to know. Do you really want to go there, lady? Because I’m already not in a good mood due to your question of “Oh what a beautiful last name and is that Latin and are you Spanish?” at which point my stomach starts to hurt and my German face is bright red because I’m sick of this story and do I really look fucking Latin or Spanish to you? And now along with my headache is a picture of my ex’s face…

Inhale. Exhale.

Yes, I have a legal middle name, but I won’t admit it and I won’t use it because all it represents is another chapter in my life written by a man. In this case, my father.

My mother was born Brunhilde Becker in a small village in Germany. When she moved to the States and then met my father, not much time passed before he decided he would rename her Brenda since it sounded better rolling off the tongue — at least his tongue. Whenever I think of that story, I imagine a king standing over his newborn baby, holding a sword, while announcing “And ye shall be named…!” Though I’m pretty sure there was less pomp and circumstance in my mother’s re-christening. And maybe a beer instead of a sword.

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So adding to my identity crisis, I was given the middle name of my mother’s alias, a name that once when I asked her if she liked the change made by my father she said: “Sure, I guess.” She also might have shrugged, which doesn’t matter because when I’m asked if I have a middle name I picture her shrugging while I think, “Yes I have a middle name but not really because it’s not her actual name thereby it’s not my actual middle name and my father gave it to her and I already have too many chapters in my life written by men so I don’t have room for anymore and besides I don’t like the name Brenda but to be honest I like the name Brunhilde even less so…” and then in answer to the question the only thing I actually say out loud is “No.”

Yes, I see it. I need help. You see it too, I know. It’s okay, we’ll get through this.

But can we also just get this out of the way? Just don’t call me Suzie and we’re good.

I’ve also had my share of older men (never young ones, never women) breaking out into bad renditions of “Oh Suzanna” when I tell them my name, though most can’t remember the words nor carry a tune so it’s over before any blood is shed from biting my tongue. These situations I can easily handle and don’t send me into the rage that calling me Susan would (Because really? Can people not read and hear the difference? Come on!).

Don’t let my exaggerations fool you; rage with me looks more like a toddler throwing her Barbie at her brother — not much of a threat there. I actually have become quite Buddhist-like when it comes to my many names, understanding that all this confusion and attachment is mine and mine alone, and that people just want a simple question answered: What is your goddamn name? One time I even thought about ditching my last and middle name and just call myself Suzanna Suzanne so people could pick and choose like on Wheel of Fortune and I’d be saved from further explanation. Still, it seemed unfair to ask this of total strangers (Can I buy an E, Pat?) so for now I’ll stick with the interchangeable last letter of my first name, ignoring my middle name like I used to do my father when he screamed Who did this?! and owning my last name like I would a new car — not sure how long it’ll stick around but I’ll enjoy it while I have it.

The point is that the pen is now in my hands. I’m the one writing these chapters now in a book that’s far from finished. The title is Suzanne and the author is Suzanna. The rest is irrelevant because during this long and tedious search of trying to figure out what’s in a name, I’ve discovered that the answer isn’t the interesting part of it.

It’s the pursuit, the inquiry, the exploration of where and how I fit into this world, and when I come across another on that journey how will I introduce myself? Who am I if not the very name I’m called? And if I can’t answer that, what does it say about me or does it say anything at all?

Until these answers come, if they ever come, maybe I’ll just stick with what I do know:

Like Leonard who knows I’m half crazy. Like Waylon who is still looking for me. Like Journey who shares my affinity for summer nights. Like the Hollies who know I’m a sucker for forgiveness. Like Mellencamp who knows I like to fly on the wind. And like Lou Reed who knows I gotta do what I gotta do, do what I can…

And you know that I love you, Suzanne.

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A version of this post was previously published on medium.com and is republished here with permission from the author.

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