Say my name

Say my name. Don't sing it, please. Yes, my parents named me after that Beatles song. But honestly, that's never meant much to me.

1968. I was born in a tumultuous year. A time of change and upheaval. My name doesn't really reflect that. What would, I wonder? Perhaps if I were named Flower or Woodstock or Fire. Hm.

Say my name. Either like my sweetie says it -- "Mee-Shell"-- influenced by Louisiana French roots -- or like my New Jersey Family -- "MuShell." Or, a childhood memory flashes, MichiKaboola, Bibbidy Bobbidy Boo. Disney Cinderella, I believe.

No, I'm not a big Beatles fan, nor a Disney princess. I'm a 60s baby. An Aries, Taurus rising. Fire and earth. A changemaker.

Say my name. Ask to know what it means to me. And what it doesn't.

I still carry the last name I was given at birth. My father's name. His father's. That's more complicated. Don't ask me about that, unless you want a long answer. One tinged with feminist ire and childhood sadness. I've never changed it, although I could. I guess there are a few things I just accept, even if I am a 60s baby, born into a time of change.

Say my name. It's simple, really. Or is it? __