What’s in a name? Shakespeare might have mused about roses, but for me, my name is a symphony—a mix of family, history, and even a dash of heavy metal. Let’s talk about my first name: Doris. It’s the name I was born with, the name I never use, and the name I spent most of my life believing was part of a cherished family tradition. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
Here’s the deal. Doris is a name with roots in Greek mythology. It means “gift” or “bounty,” which makes me sound like a benevolent sea goddess. I like that. What I don’t like is being called Dodie, which was my grandmother’s nickname and, unfortunately, what my father’s entire family called me. Hated. It.
Why Dodie? Well, my grandmother went by that name her entire life. Everyone assumed it was short for Doris, just like I did—because who questions a name when the whole family uses it with conviction? Turns out, no one in my family bothered to check if Dodie’s real name actually was Doris – which is unfortunate for more reasons than just one. But, that’s a story in itself. When I was just born, my father decided to purchase headstones for his parents, neither of whom had one. My grandparents weren’t buried together. Though they were denied a legal divorce, they lived separately in the later years of their lives. My father chose to honor them as individuals, even if their gravestones, like their lives, stood apart—a quiet acknowledgment of their independence. Not even the stonemason carving my grandmother’s gravestone bothered to check my grandmother’s real name, although I can’t necessarily blame him. It’s not out of line to assume a child knows their parent’s correct name.
Now, let’s pause here for the maximum dramatic effect: Doris wasn’t her name.
A few years ago, while digging through a genealogy website (because our family kept no papers—are you kidding me?), I stumbled upon my grandparents’ marriage license. It was signed by her mother, my great-grandmother, because my grandmother was underage at the time. There, in black and white, was her real given name staring back at me, and let me tell you, it was not Doris. I almost fell out of my chair. It was a moment of revelation that felt almost cinematic, like unearthing a forgotten note in a well-loved piece of sheet music. Imagine living your entire life under a nickname and no one—not your husband, not your kids, not even the stonemason carving your gravestone—ever bothers to check what name is actually on your birth certificate.
And while we’re talking gravestones, let’s circle back to Doris, a name I’ve come to appreciate in a whole new way. As a lifelong Metallica fan, I think it’s pretty cool that the statue from their …And Justice for All tour is named Doris. How poetic is that? My name is tied to music, justice, and a touch of badassery. It feels like kismet, considering my career in law and my passion for music. It’s like my name was fated to connect me to both my family’s past and my own passions.
These days, I go by Dorey. It’s a name that feels like me—modern, lighthearted, and not Dodie (did I mention how much I hate that nickname?). But the whole Doris-Dodie saga taught me something important: names aren’t just about what’s written down. They’re about the stories we carry, the people we honor (or don’t), and the little bits of humor that make us who we are.
So, what’s the story behind your name? Was it lovingly chosen, hilariously mistaken, or accidentally badass like mine? Let’s hear it—because every name has a tale, even if it’s written on a headstone that’s nowhere near your grandfather’s.
Please take a moment to go vote in my daily poll all about our names. 🙂
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