The first thing my father ever gave me was my name. Nora, for the great-great-great grandmother who emigrated from Ireland and chose Minnesota as her new home. Elizabeth, for his aunt, and McInerny, for himself, duh.
Growing up, I hated my name. It was too unusual, too clunky, and way too Irish. I was born in the Midwest in the early '80s, and went to school in a sea of Jennifers, Amys, Emilys, girls whose names were easy to find on a keychain, whose last names were neat and tidy and easy to pronounce: Johnson, Barrett, Smith.
"No," I'd correct people when they called me Nora Mick-in-ernee or Nora Mack-ninny, "it's like two guys in a bar… Mack and Ernie…" I'd write out new versions of myself with every new crush. Some day, I'd meet the perfect guy who could rescue me from this name-based hell I was living in. Perhaps a Chad Johnson or a Dan Smith. He'd be tall and handsome, and most importantly, he'd have a last name that people could spell and pronounce without any guidance.
My criteria for marriage was clearly beyond reproach.
But it turns out, my last name wasn't so bad. It was mine, and even though I found out in my twenties that my parents had actually forgotten to put my middle name on my birth certificate, meaning all of my legal IDs were a lie, it was a good name. It fit me. It wasn't just mine, it was me. I was Nora McInerny.
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