Oddly enough, I didn't really mind my boy name: Eric. I was named after all of the Eric/Erik/Erikson/Etc. from Norse legends. That was pretty cool. My dad gave me that name. My mom gave me my middle name, Shane, after the middle name of my oldest cousin on her side, mom's oldest nephew, who was born when my mom was 7. He was named after the western, Shane. I hate westerns, so I just told everyone I was named after my cousin.
But my real name, Zoë, was picked up when I was 7 years old on vacation in California. I loved it and my inner voice began calling myself that immediately. As for my middle name, Natasha, that one I picked up when I was 9 and had my first exposure to (get ready) Rocky and Bullwinkle. OMG, I fell head over heels in love with Natasha (not so much Boris, thank gods). That's when and how I picked up my middle name. Kind of appropriate given my boy middle name.
It's amazing how fast I shed Eric once I began full time. Where before it caused me no real distress, I began cringing when people used it after about a week of acclimating to my friends and co-workers calling me Zoë. My mom and stepdad, while totally supportive of my transition, are the only ones who didn't start calling me Zoë as soon as I told them what my name was. Honestly, I didn't have to ask anyone to start doing it, they just did. Not so much with my parents, who haven't called me by my real name once. My stepdad, I swear, says "Eric" every other sentence, even when we're out in public. He's not being obstinate, that's just what he's always done. It didn't bug me before, but it bugs me now. My mom hasn't called me any name since I told her, though she mentioned at lunch on Sunday that she met someone by the name of Zoe Lizbeth and thought the name was beautiful.
Looks like it's time to have
that talk with them...
