Debby Does…

As a kid with a mom who was an English teacher, grammar goddess, and a logophile, how I learned to speak and express myself was a process.

First, you must know, I grew up in Southern New Jersey which has a very specific accent, not dissimilar to the accent of Philadelphians that has, of late, received a great deal of attention and replication. They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but I’m not sure about this one.

Why do I bring this up? Well, my mom was vehemently opposed to having a child with this South Jersey accent. From my first words, she taught me to speak using the Standard American Dialect, which served me quite well as an actor and speaker. She was wise to start this early because I am a natural mimic and pick up every accent and dialect when I travel. In 15 minutes, I will probably sound like a born and bred Hoosier.

We practiced word pronunciation on every car ride and, in the midst of that, she liked to pepper in some advanced vocabulary for her amusement and the entertainment of others.

4 year old child at the dentist—Dentist says, “Okay, you can spit now.” Child responds, “Don’t you mean expectorate?”

5 year old child with a group of adults, discussing another person and describing him as wishy washy—Child responds, “I think pusillanimous is a better word.”

You get the idea. I mean, from the earliest ages, I loved to ask people if they were being facetious. People found it hysterical and my vocabulary continued to grow.

My mother also had some random phrases, expressions, and adages that she relied on to make her points. But, there were two that boggled my mind.

First, after a cloudy or rainy sky began to clear, she would say, “Now look. There’s enough blue to make a Dutchman’s pants.”

I mean, I get the basic premise of this, but what the heck??? Have you ever heard that one?

This one, however, is the one that caused me more frustration, consternation, and punishments for talking back than I can count.

“Did you just refer to me as ‘she’? She is the cat’s mother.”

Now, come on, what am I supposed to do with this? It made no sense that a simple pronoun could be that big of a deal, but to my mother, her child referring to her in the third person was a felony. She also laid charges against my intonation as I said “she.” I fought that with all my might and it led to nothing but sorrow, alone in my room, with only my books for friends, after crossing the line with my tone.

It was just a pronoun. A pronoun that I constantly heard my mom use, when she referenced other people and even me! I cannot recall if she followed this “etiquette” when talking about her own mother, but I have a strong suspicion that this originated with her mum, Sally, a stickler for respect.

And, as I sit here writing this today, it makes me think about pronouns, names, and titles, and why they matter. Look, I know some of you are very uncomfortable talking about this stuff, but maybe I can help.

How we refer to people matters. It is referential of our level of respect and caring for one another. If I tell you that I would prefer to be called Debby, and you continue to recognize me solely as Deborah, I find that disrespectful, and it’s clear that you have no concern for my comfort. I have the right to be Ms. Debby Jenkins, she/her, whether you like it or not. I don’t often want to be called Mrs. Deborah Dalfonso, wife of James. It’s not my vibe. Even my husband refers to me as Debby Jenkins. That’s who I am. I’ve been her for a long time. I know her inside and out.

As women, we’ve taken on names and titles that are not our own for centuries, labeling us as possessions and property of the man lucky enough to take ownership of us and our dowries. Those are outdated terms that some folks seem to have a hard time sending over the horizon. Then there are those for whom those titles and traditions hold no meaning or negativity, and they embrace them. Cheers to whatever suits you best.

The names our parents give us are their choice and may not suit who we are as we grow and become our true selves. Trust me, this entire “debby does” thing is based on being named Debby. Debby Does Dallas, Debby Downer, Debby the dumb blonde cheerleader—the opportunities for being ridiculed are infinite. I always wanted to be a Katherine or an Elizabeth, a name with copious nickname options, also rich in history. I have made peace with being a Debby, but it was a journey. If I could go back to 1970 and negotiate with Bruce and Judy, I would lobby for a different name.

That’s why when people change their names and adjust the ways they want to be addressed, it’s just not a big deal for me. If it matters to them and gives them a greater sense of self, I’m all for it. Plus, how does it even affect me? I might have to get used to it, but I’m pretty sure it’s not all about me! Your comfort and self assurance is far more important to me than adjusting to a new name or pronoun. I’m happy to make you happy.

I recognize that this pronoun thing is really hard for some people and, as I look back, my mom’s requirement that I refer to her as “my mom” when I talked about her was hard for me to understand. Now, missing her for 936 days, I would do anything to call her “my mom” in a conversation that she overheard. I’d probably give even more to have her hear me call her “she” and then get the dreaded “cat’s mother” rebuke!

After all, I was the only person on earth who could call her “my mom.”

I can remember my dad being incensed that my mother referred to him as “Debby’s father” instead of as “my ex-husband” and my mom’s response to him was that she thought one was a far more positive title. I also think she knew it pissed him off. Judy had a slightly spiteful side, which makes me chuckle.

Either way, they each had ideas about how they wanted to be titled and labeled to others and themselves. It mattered. It’s intensely personal to have a name and an identity and a sense of self in this big world where so many of us feel anonymous.

She/Her/He/Him/They/Them/Mr./Mrs./Miss/Ms./Mom/Dad/Husband/Wife/Sister/Brother and more are the ways that people identify themselves, categorize people they meet, and help others understand who they are. Some of these terms are based on old patriarchal traditions that no longer apply to all of us or maybe any of us. Just because it’s always been a certain way doesn’t mean that it can’t change tomorrow. Change is inevitable and being able to adapt is the only way we can survive in this world. Clinging to the past and stomping our feet in the name of history and tradition is an exhausting exercise in futility that only serves to isolate us from each other, which is the exact opposite of life’s purpose and promise.

When someone says, hey, can you call me Joe? They’re asking you to know them as they know themselves and inviting you into that circle of connection. As a person who names everything—even the little bird that flies into my window and sits stunned on the ground—I recognize that names are the outreached hand that brings you closer and allows you to truly start to know someone. All that knowing and learning about each other is only possible when we are open to showing respect, caring, and compassion to each other as we stumble along this journey, finding ourselves and finding out about ourselves and each other.

Names. Titles. Pronouns. They matter. I mean, I had to use a pronoun to say that.

I’m guessing the cat’s mother even had a name other than “she” but no one thought “she” was important enough to use it. To me, you are important enough. I’ll call you whatever you want, as long as it makes you happy. Happy is the goal.

This post meandered and got a bit away from me, but I’m glad to have had the opportunity to say what may not be popular or easy.

Debby Jenkins, she/her, writer, thinker, singer, partner, dog mom, bonus mom, Hoosier, and Miss Woodland Shores 1994 foreverrrrrrrrrrrr!!!!!

And, in case you need more information:

The Cat’s Mother.