I filled out one of those random Facebook questionnaires today. I usually keep scrolling when I see those, but my stepdad specifically tagged me, which made me feel obligated to share pointless facts about my life. The first series of questions asked three names people call me – Capper, Cap, & Doddle Bug.
I can’t really explain any of the nicknames. I mean, I know stories of where they stemmed from, but I think they slowly became more and more elaborated over the years. So, I’ll spare you the sketchy deets. The just – some older gentleman at my childhood church was called Cap. He and I were besties.
My mother claims she named me Catherine Aimee (Ahhh-Meee) because she wanted me to have a “classy” name. Turns out, as you grow up – sometimes you don’t live up to your classy name and people have to make up boyish alternatives that better suit your all beige.. all jean.. all sneaker lifestyle.
Hi Cap.
No one ever gets the name Cap right on the first time, which means I usually have to pretend I’m cool with being called Cat or worse – Cathy. Eventually people start catching on to the “pppp” sound, but some slow rollers are still missing it three + years down the road. #awkward
Side note: Close friends call me Capper, which is an instant reminder that they know EVERYTHING about me. My heart gets warm and fuzzy when I hear Capper.
No one in NYC calls me Capper.
My mom, sister and brother are the only people allowed to call me Doodle.
I usually introduce myself as Catherine because, as I said above, no one gets the “P” on the first go. I tend to just let people figure out Cap on their own.
What I’m trying to get at is we don’t just come out being the person we’re meant to be. It takes a lot of work and a lot of mispronunciations to get people to understand you. Right now, I feel like I’m living a steady “Cathy” life. No one in NYC really catches on to my vibe, and the writing gigs are kind of none existent. In NYC, I have to show people who Cap was before she was Cap, because they didn’t see me get here. I’m basically starting at Catherine Aimee and trying to deconstruct from there. But I don’t have 27 years to do it. I’ve got like 30 seconds.
ITS ROUGH Y’ALL.
I just wanna transition from Ziggy Stardust to Major Tom without the hassle. (RIP BOWIE)
The other day I was talking with my mom about how to be who you want to be in life. I mean, you can read lots of motivational books that may help, but what really gets a person to go out in search of themselves?
I think we’re always evolving. Some names aren’t always as glamorous or fun as others, but they make the final you that much more unique and weird and more understood.
Here’s to making people in NYC catch that “p”.
Southern Wild 