I once had a great-aunt named Jessie – until I got old enough that my Father told me I didn’t.
Just before I turned 12, my Father informed the family that his favorite aunt had rented a tiny cottage in our tourist town, and would be vacationing for a week. Never married – she may have been lesbian – she still gathered four small children, cared for and mostly raised them, when Dad’s mother died, giving birth to his younger sister, and his father abandoned them to go off and become a hermit.
She always treated him particularly well. The few times I met her, she treated me particularly well. I had (almost) reached the Age Of Reason. With no obvious prompt, my Dad said, “Her real name isn’t Jessie, you know.” (No, I didn’t know that.) “What is it then?”
Dad’s paternal grandparents weren’t exceedingly Christian. Their two boys received common, normal names. Dad’s dad was Howard. His aunt may have been assigned her questionable moniker, because her mother was reminded. She was an unfortunate, female, every-third-child, who was born with a head of brilliant red hair.
She soon tired of the name Jezebel. She was picked on, mocked, and bullied, at school and in church. She was still young – elementary school – when she decided to do something about the despicable actions and attitudes of ‘Good Christians.’ Jezebel disappeared, never to be heard of again, and Jessie (or was it Jesse?) came into being, to take her place.
I am so glad that my mother gave me two Plain-Jane (Well…. You know what I mean) names. I can disappear in a crowd of two. Archon, and the Grumpy Old Dude, haven’t disappeared though. Stop back again soon, and I’ll tell you about the fellow who appeared before a judge, requesting to legally change his name. The judge asked, “What is your name?” He replied, “Joe Schitts.” “Well, I can understand why you would want to change your name. What do you want to change it to?” “Bob!” 😯