Why I’m not “Charlie” or “Charles”

I know it’s on my birth certificate.  I know it’s on my driver’s license.

Still, only a few people in my life – a VERY SELECT FEW PEOPLE – ever get to call me those names today.

And with good reason.

We do not get to pick our birth names. By the time we’re out of the womb, we’re barely able to wiggle our toes and scream for air. But somewhere along the way, my mother decided that I should be named Charles, after my grandfather.

Of course, how could she know that naming me Charles would have caused so much hassle in my life.

Growing up, “Charles” was an easy name for bullies and griefers to tease and insult me with. It was, as far as I was concerned, a name for snobs and higher-ups. And “Charlie” wasn’t much better.

Think about it for a second. I had to put up with this commercial for years…

Not to mention a Chicken of the Sea mascot for a brand of tuna that I really didn’t like as a kid…

And every “Charlie” out there had to also deal with this.

But the worst came when the Revlon cosmetics company came up with this stinkwater product.  Personally, I think it was an experimental bug lotion that drew more bugs than it drove away.

Nothing like hearing that jingle every time I went to school.

I hated it. I hated the teasing and the bullying and the condescending comments. Yes, kids can be mean. It didn’t matter. I just wanted the teasing to stop. I was sick of hearing my name called out in that singsong Revlon jingle. I could put up with the Coasters song. I could even – on rare occasions – deal with the Good ‘n Plenty commercial.

But the Revlon perfume… as a great American once said, “That’s all I can stanz, I can’t stanz no more!”  Especially when your last name happens to also be the name of an alcoholic beverage…

And I would get teased and I would get beat up… mostly about my name, mostly about my background (new kid), mostly about my social skills (hey, you move around from place to place nearly every year, social skills are hard to come by), and I didn’t want to deal with any more abuse. Not at home, not at school.

By the time I made it to tenth grade, and was living in Abington, Mass. with my father and stepmother in the Chestnut Prison, I was still feeling the psychological and emotional wounds of teasing and bullying and name-calling and abuse.

And on my first day at Abington High School (#11 on the List of the Twelve), I was trying to prepare myself for another round of teasing and bullying.

The teacher read the roll call.  “We have a new student with us,” he said. “His name is Charles Miller. Charlie or Chuck?”

Quick, think. You have a choice.  Nobody knows you here as “Charlie.”  And there are no toilet-water perfumes with the name Chuck.  What does it matter if anybody at home calls you Charlie?

“Chuck, please, sir.”

“Okay, Chuck is his name.  Chuck Miller.”

And with that, I became Chuck.  It was an important choice in my life.  I had to squeeze out all the pain and grief associated with that name.

Even with all that, I still put up with songs from Rickie Lee Jones…

And I deal with killer dolls in movies…

Oh yeah, and that restaurant of note…

But I’d put up with all of that, just to never have to hear someone sing that sing-song stinkwater jingle to me ever again.

And if it means I’m “Chuck” rather than “Charles” or “Charlie,” then that’s fine by me.