People never know how to spell or say my name. After getting divorced I kept my ex's name so I could have the same as my kids.
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My maiden name has 20 letters, with half residing at the end — Sheryl Lynn Sirotinsky.
Imagine growing up with an uncommon spelling for your first name, "S" instead of "C," and a last name people tripped over. As a youngster playing make-believe, I kept Princess Sheryl and dumped Sirotinsky in fairy dust.
From kindergarten through high school, a teacher would invariably yell out for roll call, "Sheri Siro-sky" (sounding like heaven above rather than "ski"). I couldn't understand the difficulty in reading these names — all others were phonetically accurate.
One instructor asked, "Wouldn't you rather go by Sheri?" I hated being called "Sheri" and defended my parents' choice of name despite its history.
Around age 10, I learned "Sheryl" was selected in memory of a deceased cousin.
Mom, Grandma, and I were sitting at the kitchen table when Grandma mentioned, "That poor girl dying in a train accident."
"Girl? I shrieked. "Don't you name a baby after someone who lived long?"
Grandma joked, "Don't ever get on a train, and you'll be fine."
Already harboring a healthy dose of superstition, it would take a herculean effort to get me back on the "L" in Chicago, the Metro when living in DC, and the same strength to ride the New York Subway. I'd love to see the countryside by railway, but I still can't mentally step on board.
As a teenager, known for big boobs and a nose out of proportion with its face, kids often referred to me as "Cyrano" (as in "Cyrano De Bergerac," the man and subsequent play known for his ugly nose) and called me "Siro-tit-sky." Students who couldn't figure it out would yell, "Sheryltinsky," like a one-named superstar. I'd laugh, but nicknames hurt.
I married my high school sweetheart, so I had practiced drawing my future signature in cursive, print, backward, and forward in every notebook since age 14. But soon after saying "I do," even with having said "Stillman" countless times, the reality of losing my identity sank in. While secretly postponing the paperwork erasing the person I had been for 26 years, a kind assistant arranged for a new office nameplate and 500 business cards to be ready upon returning from honeymoon.
Swapping Sirotinsky for Stillman did make life simpler.
Divorcing when my kids were adolescents, sharing a surname was important to me. Plus, who'd return to one with four syllables? On the anniversary of my 30th nuptials, with kids now adults, I considered releasing the last name linking me to my ex. But what would I change it to? I made up something merging the past and present — "Skye" — and floated it with my offspring. The youngest liked the idea; the oldest said I was crazy. I worried, likely projected, that they would feel abandoned.
Of course, I realized more than a name connects me with my kids and their father. I pondered who I'd been for over 56 years. Ultimately, our experiences shape who we are, and while names can come and go, but staying "the Stillmans," no matter my children's ages, is here to stay.
