Red Room Where the Writers Are

Huntington’s blog today reminded me of my name. Jennifer, as many of you know, was the most popular name in the galaxy during the early 70’s. Who can we thank for this? Ali MacGraw, ladies and gentlemen!

In 1970 MacGraw was in Love Story, where she was the lovely swearing Jenny who fell for Oliver Barrett the Fourth played by Ryan O’Neal.  They got married, survived on her teaching salary, and then she died in Oliver’s arms. Can you tell I’ve seen this movie oh, about dozens of times?  That I can recite the last scene with Oliver and his dad Oliver the Third (Ray Milland) by heart?

Oliver 3:  Oliver, why didn’t you tell me?  I made a couple of calls and I jumped in the car. Oliver, I want to help.
Oliver 4: Jenny is dead.
Oliver3: I’m sorry…
Oliver4: Love…love…means…never…saying…you’re…sorry.

Yes, I’m a sap. Ryan O’Neal looks darned cute in that turtleneck.

I’m not named for Jenny, however. In fact, it’s a mystery how Jennifer was decided between my parents. For about twelve hours after my birth, I was “The Baby.”  My mother liked the name Katharine, for her grandmother and Katharine Hepburn.  She also liked Elizabeth, Sabrina, Lauren, and Gigi. (If you’re noticing a movie trend, you’re not the only one.) Yes, my name could’ve been Gigi Gibbons.  My father put his foot down on that one.

Dad liked Kathleen. Kathleen was his sister’s name and of his favorite aunt. “It’s just like Katharine. We can call her Kate,” he said. My mother had visions of a red haired beauty talking in a thick Irish accent. “Poor Kathleen! Her family died in the potato famine and now she’s a maid! Aw, Kathleen, it’s a hard life for you, ain’t it?”

Jennifer was an odd compromise.  It went well with Gibbons, and at the time, both my parents swear no one they knew was called Jennifer. Kathleen became my middle name. If you heard my father tell the story, he would say my mother’s best friend Missy named me after Jennifer Jones.  Or Jennifer O’Neill.  “It was a movie star, I can tell you that,” he told me.

When Mom told my grandmother, she said “Don’t let people call her Jenny. Then they’ll think she’s a mule.”
“What are you talking about?” Mom asked.
“In factories there’s a machine called a mule-jenny.  You don’t want people calling The Baby Jenny the Mule, do you?”
Yet it was my grandmother who called me Jenny Kate. “Time for school, Jenny Kate!” “Jenny Kate, you’ve had enough cookies!”

My cousin couldn’t say Kate. Instead, she called me Jenny Cake.  This provided much laughter in my family and they still sometimes call me this. Let this be a reminder if you’re not a member of my family, don’t try it.

Yet when I was in Catholic School I was Jenny. I really truly hated it. It didn’t fit me.  I didn’t say anything because it didn’t occur to me that I could say “Hey, don’t call me that” until I was eleven and switched schools.  When the teacher asked me what I preferred namewise, I said “Jennifer.”  That was the end of little Jenny Gibbons.

What I hate is when people call me Jenny out of nowhere. I say in a polite voice “Jennifer.” Usually people are very nice about it, but there’s always the person that looks at me like I’ve told them their baby is ugly. Sorry chum. It’s not you but my name is Jennifer.

When my niece was learning to talk, she called me Jenna. “Come on, Jenna,” she would say when she wanted to do something.  “You’re my Jenna!” she told me. Like I needed reminding.

I used to wish I had an unusual name. Now I like being Jennifer.  I share my name with many fine Jennifers out there, not to mention…

Jennifer Juniper, a great Donavan song!

Jennifer Convertibles!

Jennifer Weiner!

Jennifer Hudson!

Not bad for a girl who could’ve been Gigi.