And who IS LizzieV?

Elizabeth, Lizzie, Betsy & Beth, all went off to seek a bird’s nest. They found a nest with five eggs in it; they each took one & left four in it.

LizzieV is my on-line persona. I always wanted to be a Lizzie. Rhymes with dizzy.

When I was born, my parents gave me the name of "Elizabeth Veronica," not because they were Archie fans, but those are the names of my mother's beloved grandmothers, God rest their souls & keep them. Nice name. I like it a lot. But it is rather a mouthful of syllables, so a smallish, nickname was needed for a smallish baby. My father proposed calling me "Evie," from my initials, but my mother would not have it. It did not sound good Christian Catholic to her, and worse, it reminded her too much of the main character in "The Three Faces of Eve." No daughter of hers would be thought to be psychotic. And so, she saddled me with "Beth."

I am sardonic. I spent almost 18 years of life as “Beth.” Beth made friends, some of whom I still keep, many of whom I keep fond memories. Beth is loved & known to her extended family. Beth learned much, read more, traveled a bit and can play the clarinet. Beth fell in love for the first time, and out of it, and learned that a broken heart is strongest where the cracks have mended. Beth graduated high school, and actually got a job that didn’t involve babysitting. Beth loved to ride her bicycle.

But, truly, I never, really, felt like a “Beth.” Growing up, I met only two other Beths; one was sparklier than me and lived in our town for less than a year; the other one I babysat. The only Beth I recall from literature died halfway through the book after being a pale invalid—sure she was loved & mourned, but I wanted to be Jo, and would have even settled for Meg or Amy. No, “Beth” was a quiet, dowdy, unglamorous & shy persona. And so I was. But I didn’t feel so, not in my heart.

Yet who can change, when everyone thinks they know you so well? I took the name of “Marie Bernadette” at Confirmation my freshman year. Another quiet, dowdy girl, but one who created quite a stir and lead us to a miracle that still imparts God’s grace to us; for the year of my studies, Sister Barbara forgot herself & called me “Marie Bernadette,” because she, herself, had been to Lourdes and had been personally transformed there. In her eyes, I transformed, but not for long; the other confirmands looked askance at her, and she was profoundly apologetic at the end of the year to actually remember my baptismal name. Then, during my sophomore year, I tried to get a group of friends to call me “Ronnie” after my middle name, but that lasted only 20 minutes. My junior year, after one Wordsmith competition, it was agreed that I was more of a “Daphne” than Daphne was; I think they might have decided she was an “Amy.” Then, finally, my senior year, all the preppie girls embraced their Elizabeth-ness and became “Beths”: Beth Ann, Mary Beth, Jo Beth, Beth Page, you name it. So now I heard my name everywhere, but no one was talking to me. Le sigh…

But, one person did call me “Lizzie.” I mentioned I biked. I flew over my handle bars, once. Knocked my two front teeth all but out. Had to have a pair of crowns, and later root canals. I was sent to a pediatric dentist, and although my mother drove me, she, for once, did not hover over me in the dentist’s office. Maybe she thought I was grown-up enough, but likely she was just uncomfortable watching the whole dental process. Bless his heart, the dentist had only my name "Elizabeth" on his chart; me, I had a mouth full of gauze, an uncomfortable dental dam and Novocain, and a whole lot of laughing gas. I couldn’t say much for myself. So for several weeks, I was “Lizzie.” And I liked it.

I went AWAY to college. With a name like "Elizabeth" the possibilities of renaming were broad. I introduced myself as Elizabeth, with the thought that, as I made a circle of friends, they would call me by a name they thought fit me. But, what I wound up with were people saying my name as if it had 20 syllables instead of its four, and it was obvious that they just wanted me to decide who I was.

I decided I was “Liz.” I wanted to be someone with a bit of a backbone & sass. People liked Liz, and Liz liked them back. I felt that it is me.

It took my parents & brother about 20 years to stop saying “Liz” as if they were hissing at me in a sarcastic manner. (What???? as if they kept their childhood nick-names the same all through their lives.) Most of my relatives still call me “Beth,” since they only see me a couple of times a year; one even said she refused to call me anything but “Beth.” (And I’m equally forgetful; three of my cousins have taken to going by different name as well, and I still call them by what I grew up with.) I’m OK with “Beth,” because, I guess I’m still “Beth” with them. And I’m still “Beth” to a few pre-college friends.

I am Liz. That’s who I wanted to be, and that is who I am. Liz has taken longer to grow up than Beth did, but I like her.

And now, I have chosen “LizzieV” as my on-line persona. Hiding behind my faceless keyboard, I can be a bit more sarcastic, a bit more wry, a bit more goofy and a bit more flip. I can, in short, be fey. Lizzie has a lighter touch, and LizzieV, well, she dreams. One day I shall be old. I will have discharged my responsibilities, and guarded my health & wealth the best I could. My luck will no longer have to keep my body & soul together & I will be allowed to be whimsical in my dotage. The wind shall call me, as a child in my heart, “Elizabeth V! Come dance with me!” and I shall twirl off foolishly, joyously, with a backwards gleeful laugh.

Perhaps here, in the aether of electrons, I begin to dream.