MOST of you have known me as Ethel Mae or Mae. I’ve always been Mae. Even my pet names have Mae as their root. I graduated from the university and started working as Ethel Mae.
Picture this: Ethel Mae, the undercover agent with a secret identity. I’ve got one foot in the world of Ethel, and the other in the realm of Mae. It’s like having a split personality. Instead of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, it’s Ethel and Mae duking it out over coffee orders.
Ethel: “I’ll have a double shot cappuccino, please.”
Mae: “Make that a double shot americano, please.”
Ethel by day, Mae by night. Versatile enough to have a name wardrobe—switching outfits faster than Superman in a phone booth.
It never dawned on me to secure a copy of my birth certificate because it was not needed then during enrollment—from grade school to college.
Imagine my shock when I stumbled upon my NSO-issued birth certificate. I was reading it like a cryptic message from beyond: “Congratulations, you’re officially Ethel. Surprise!” The spelling of my mother’s name was incorrect. A different person, if I may add, given that the middle name is different. Mama was shocked to learn my real name since she was the one who had enrolled me in kindergarten. It’s like finding out your favorite ice cream flavor is alugbati-flavored.
To quote my brother, “It only confirmed you’re a foundling.” Forget ancestry DNA tests; check the birth certificate for plot twists.
I'm not used to being called Ethel, but I have learned to accept it. Ethel, meet Acceptance. Acceptance, meet Ethel. Mae is now a nickname. It’s a reluctant handshake, but I’m learning to coexist. I used to cringe when someone called me Ethel, but now I need to rewind my mind. It’s like rebooting and going back to the factory setting. Mae.dll has stopped working, and Ethel.exe is taking over.
Most of you might wonder why I hadn’t known since kindergarten entry. Back in the day, kindergarten enrollment was a breeze. No birth certificates were required—show up with your crayons, a backpack full of dreams, and your payment. My Mama can't recall LCGS asking for it. The school didn’t care if you were Ethel, Mae, Hermione, or Luna Lovegood. Unlike now, it’s all paperwork and bureaucracy—birth certificates and a signed affidavit from your imaginary friend. It’s like enrolling in Hogwarts, minus the magic.
So, dear reader, embrace your name quirks, whether you’re an Ethel, a Mae, a Totot Mae, or a Mitot. Life is a cosmic game of Scrabble, and we’re all playing with borrowed letters. As for me, I’m rocking the Ethel-Mae combo. Remember, when in doubt, blame it on the birth certificate—it’s the ultimate plot twist.
