Because so often our names fit our personality, I have often wondered if we pick our baby’s names or if, somehow, from the other side of the universe, our naming is sublimely picked by who-knows-who (or what). There are lots of superstitions around names. Native Americans pick strong names from nature for their babies. I once saw a father/son interview, where the father named his son Billionaire (I think they call him Bill) as an experiment. He was a strong believer in “you are what you are called.” I mean, if someone called you dumbass every day, you would probably end up one.
When I was born, my mother wanted to name me Kerri. Kerri with an I. That was because her best friend, in a small town in Arkansas, for which she grew up with and who was now living 300 miles away in Dallas TX, was having a daughter about the same time and they wanted their baby girls to have the same name.
But when the delivery doctor heard the name my mother had chosen, he balked, saying it was cute for a girl but not appropriate for a grown woman and suggested Kerrin as my given name with the nickname of Kerri. Mother took his advice and named me Kerrin (on the doctor’s advice) Lou (after her mother, my grandmother Lulu) and Krouse, of course, her married last name, Kerrin Lou Krouse.
Experimenting with Spelling
Knowing my nickname was just made up, I experimented with its spelling. In grade school I signed my papers Keri, like the lotion, or Carrie; that never felt right, and I eventually landed on the ‘Kerry’ spelling. And that was that.
Today, the only time I use my real name Kerrin is on legal documents and taxes.
Naming Revelations
Twenty-five years ago, I’m lying in bed, in the dark, with my youngest son, Jack, who was having an identity crisis because he had just found out his given name was John. I explained that I had wanted to name him Jack but that Grady’s grandmother, Hazel, insisted he be named either Jackson or John, and only then could I call him Jack.
Like my mother 40 years earlier, I gave in.
As I lie in the dark with Jack, I try to make him feel better by telling him my name was really Kerrin, his brother Gray’s name was Grady, and his sister Meghan, was Sara Meghan. I don’t think it helped.
Now, decades later, there is another revelation. My son-n-law of 20 years recently found out my name was Kerrin and absurdly, ghastly said to my daughter, “You mean your mother is a Karen?!”
For these 70 years of my life, I thought my mother made up the spelling of my given name. But recently, while checking in for a doctor appointment at Carti, the woman told me my name had an origin, so I Googled it.
Kerrin is a feminine name of Irish and Gaelic origin, derived from the Gaelic name Ciaran, meaning “little dark one” or “dark-haired”.
Coincidentally, I had very dark hair when I was young and for the past 37 years I have taken, through marriage, my husband’s Gaelic last name McCoy. Coincidence? Or part of a greater plan?
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