I traded in my lovely Sicilian surname when I married. Tired of being referred to as Amy Pugloski, Pugsley or some other variant for the unable-to-read, I agreed to be a Bisson. Seriously, how could that get screwed up?
Over the years I’ve heard my name pronounced Bi-son (yeah, just like the mammal from the Plains), Bitchell, and several other fun and creative ways. For God’s sake people, it’s only 6 letters. Use the rules of phonics, you know, a vowel surrounded by consonants makes the short sound of the vowel. We’re not even trying to insist on the French pronunciation.
Last year, I needed a new faculty identification badge. So, despite loving how I look in those deer-in-the-headlight beautifully lit school-picture day shots, I filled out the form, sat on the stool and voila. Two seconds later, I was moving on to the next thing.
My picture ID came back with my last name spelled…. Bison. I can assure you I do know you to spell my last name. Accurately.
Of course, school picture day companies are gone by dismissal times so there was no one to complain to. Mrs. Bison remained locked in my desk drawer for the duration. No one here by that name.
This year, I gave it yet another shot. Again, paying close attention this time to my handwriting, I spelled my last name ever so carefully. B…i….s….s….o…n. Again, deer-in-the-headlight lighting, sit on the stool, badda bing, badda boom, “portrait” taken.
How excited was I that I would have my very own, picture identification card hanging from its rightful place around my neck! That is, until I noticed my name. This time, with a nod to informality, my first name appeared on the ID. My last name – no, my last name didn’t make it. This time I was Besson.
Good grief. And you thought I was going to write about politics 🙂