All right, before you start in on me, I KNOW what I did today was immature and petty. I'm pushing 50; I should probably be above this sort of passive-aggressive behavior by now.
And yet.
When I read the book and watched the movie Coraline, I empathized fiercely with the protagonist. Because much like Coraline Jones, throughout my life I have had to deal with nearly everyone calling me by the wrong first name. When I was younger and even more shy of strangers, I'd furtively tell them my name -- Suzanne -- and they wouldn't hear me properly and call me "Susan" instead. This happened so often to me that I just started answering to "Susan" without bothering to correct them.
When Mom first noticed me doing this, her displeasure was obvious. "Honey, that isn't your name!" she said.
"That's what they call me."
"Well, tell them your name is Suzanne, not Susan."
"They don't listen to me," I muttered.
"It's easy. You just say, 'My name is Suzanne,' loud enough that they can hear."
At the time, asserting myself this way sounded like torture. I didn't actually start standing up for my real name until some time late in high school, when I finally got thoroughly sick of being Susaned and started saying, "It's... it's Suzanne, actually," to teachers who got it wrong.
Don't misunderstand me -- Susan's not a bad name. It's just not my name. (It is, however, the name of my dear sister-in-law, which has caused all sorts of social media problems for both of us -- but that's a whole 'nother story set.)
From high school to now, some 30 years later, I continue to be Susaned on a regular basis. Even today, when I went into a local burger shop to pick up dinner for Captain Midnight. At the end of the order: "Could I get your name, please?"
"Suzanne," I said, as clearly as I could, not too loudly but loud enough to be understood, articulating the emphasis on the second syllable. I then handed the slightly weeded-up teenager behind the counter my debit card, which has the name "Suzanne" engraved right on it.
"OK, we'll call your name when it's ready," he drawled, handing me back my card and the charge slip, which clearly had printed across the center:
I took the card and the receipt, sat down in a chair and proceeded to wait -- and to ignore the numerous calls behind the counter: "Uh, Susan?" "Cheesesteak, Susan?" "Order to go for Susan, cheesesteak and bacon cheese fries?" Sorry, Buster, not my name. Not my circus, not my monkey.
Finally the kid who had taken my order got tired of hollering to no purpose, and trotted out from behind the counter to hand me the bag. I thanked him, did not bother to explain why I hadn't retrieved the order myself, and left to bring CM his delectably greasy goodies.
I'm not sure I'm prepared to go back there soon. First, I'll need to have a T-shirt printed up that says "MY NAME IS SUZANNE, NOT SUSAN." With my track record, however, I'm not sure even this obvious lampshading will get me any leverage.
Maybe that's why I stick to Soozcat.
