When I was married, we had an old VW bus in which we traversed Colorado and parts west and east. My husband loved the idea of communicating with the semi drivers who plied the interstates, so he bought a CB radio for the bus and we all decided on our CB "handles".
I think Larry was Silver Bullet, our son Mike was the Midnight Bullet (I could be wrong---maybe he'll correct me), and I, riffing on the old Gunsmoke TV show, decided I would be Ms. Kitty. This moniker was a slight dig at my husband who once complained that the term "Ms." meant manuscript. You might be able to tell he was an English major.
In any case, after we split up amicably, we shared the bus and the boy, and I entered a whole new stage of life. My mother had suggested I look into joining Mensa as a way of making new friends. I hadn't given much thought to the early years when my being a brainiac in high school had invited some of those hated nicknames, but she persisted and I took the IQ test and qualified for Mensahood.
As I got acquainted with other nerds (whose chief attraction was that they thought I was funny--not funny-looking or weird, but that they laughed at my jokes), I discovered that when they heard the nickname Ms. Kitty, they loved it!
All these new friends immediately recognized the updating of Amanda Blake, the Miss Kitty of Gunsmoke and the apparent paramour of Sheriff Matt Dillon. I became Ms. Kitty of Denver Mile High Mensa. Not exactly a saloon, but we did spend a certain amount of time on bar stools after meetings and at TGIFs.
Ms. Kitty became a persona for me, over time, a persona that had to be set aside during my ministry studies and the 20 years I spent in ministry. I was essentially celibate for those 25 years and continue with that approach to new friends, being the "A" in the sexual minority alphabet, where, in my case, it stands for both Ally and asexual. I'm past caring about having a sexual partner. I just want friends who laugh at my jokes.
Sunday, May 24, 2020
Sunday, May 17, 2020
What's in a Name?
When, in 1958, I came home from high school Baptist summer camp having decided to change my nickname from Betsy (from Elizabeth) to Kit (from nothing other than it was alliterative with my surname Ketcham) and announced this to my family, I blithely thought they had taken it in stride, a phase in the life of their eldest daughter who was beginning to show signs of flying the coop.
But the truth was that I was sick of being Betsy. Betsy sounded so immature, a pigtailed persona with pimples. Betsy Ketcham was too easy a name to turn into semi-insulting taunts: Ketchup, Ketchy Belchum, Betsy Wetsy, Catgut, Ketcham and Kissum, and the like.
I had learned from my dad not to rise to the bait but to laugh off the slurs rather than to get mad or hurt. He had learned this trick as a teenager who was 6'6", 140 pounds soaking wet, and teased unmercifully as a result. So I coped, but when I went to college, I had made up my mind: my family could still call me Betsy, but to everyone else, I was going to be Kit.
This transition was hard on my parents, who loved the name Elizabeth and had bestowed the nickname Betsy at birth. They still called me Betsy, even in public where my fellow college chums could hear, and my sister was miffed because I had a lot of nicknames at my disposal, like Beth and Liza, and wasn't using them. She didn't see what was so bad about Lizzie, but I did, and I wasn't going there either. She had a very normal name with few nickname alternatives and she was peeved that she had very little to work with.
My brother had been given a difficult name himself, named for my father and our maternal grandfather, both of these names a mouthful and always requiring an explanation, both of their origin and how to spell them. He has grown into his difficult name and wears it proudly these days, as far as I can tell.
Now, as an adult about to achieve my 78th birthday, I have been Kit for 61 years. Kit, of course, has its own set of take-offs: Kit Karson, Kitty, Kitsy, and the inevitable question arises---is your real name Kathleen? I didn't really avoid much unnecessary attention by becoming Kit. I still, in some circles, enjoy the moniker "Ms. Kitty", as you'll see from the name of my blog.
But the truth was that I was sick of being Betsy. Betsy sounded so immature, a pigtailed persona with pimples. Betsy Ketcham was too easy a name to turn into semi-insulting taunts: Ketchup, Ketchy Belchum, Betsy Wetsy, Catgut, Ketcham and Kissum, and the like.
I had learned from my dad not to rise to the bait but to laugh off the slurs rather than to get mad or hurt. He had learned this trick as a teenager who was 6'6", 140 pounds soaking wet, and teased unmercifully as a result. So I coped, but when I went to college, I had made up my mind: my family could still call me Betsy, but to everyone else, I was going to be Kit.
This transition was hard on my parents, who loved the name Elizabeth and had bestowed the nickname Betsy at birth. They still called me Betsy, even in public where my fellow college chums could hear, and my sister was miffed because I had a lot of nicknames at my disposal, like Beth and Liza, and wasn't using them. She didn't see what was so bad about Lizzie, but I did, and I wasn't going there either. She had a very normal name with few nickname alternatives and she was peeved that she had very little to work with.
My brother had been given a difficult name himself, named for my father and our maternal grandfather, both of these names a mouthful and always requiring an explanation, both of their origin and how to spell them. He has grown into his difficult name and wears it proudly these days, as far as I can tell.
Now, as an adult about to achieve my 78th birthday, I have been Kit for 61 years. Kit, of course, has its own set of take-offs: Kit Karson, Kitty, Kitsy, and the inevitable question arises---is your real name Kathleen? I didn't really avoid much unnecessary attention by becoming Kit. I still, in some circles, enjoy the moniker "Ms. Kitty", as you'll see from the name of my blog.
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