Naming me after a sweet drug addict from a movie (“But she was so nice”-my parents when confronted with this) seemed like a great idea at the time. I love my name: Jenny. It’s short, it’s cute, it’s easy to spell. All great qualities in a name except…it’s a nickname. My parents knew Jennifer was not the name for me (no offense Jennifer’s), so the simple solution was to…not name me that. Easy, right? Little did they know, they were condemning me to a lifetime of defending my name’s right to exist.
I have been called Jennifer many times throughout my life by middle-aged men attempting to pull a power play, an ex who knew it annoyed me, and officials who decide to change my name on paperwork. And if another man trying to make a “dad joke” says “Hi, Just Jenny” after I started introducing myself as “I’m Jenny, just Jenny” as a child (because it was such a prevailing problem), goes missing, I cannot be held responsible. Did I think my days of arguing with people over my “nickname” name were over? Yes, I truly thought at 25 that would no longer be a problem. Nope, thanks Mom and Dad, it’s apparently going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
Now that my dear readers, specifically those who have not already heard this rant, understand the chronic predicament, I move onto why this is relevant. We had a new roommate show up a few days ago, Gwen, who I genuinely thought was someone’s lover who slept over for like two days. How did I find out Gwen lives here? She got added to the “flatmates” group chat. Oops…So I finally introduced myself to Gwen this morning while making my bagel and watching her eat oatmeal out of a tall cup (which I genuinely have a lot of respect for).
Now begins the flashback to fourth grade where I spent many days arguing with a nine year old boy that my name was not short for Jennifer, culminating in a heated conversation that went something like this:
“Jenny is not a name, it’s short for Jennifer!”
“I swear to fucking god, Steve, that is my name for Christ’s sake!”
“Is it on your birth certificate?!”
“Yes, motherfucker, that shit is signed and sealed!”
“I’m gonna ask your mom!”
“Fucking ask her and take your dumbass to other side of the playground!”
That is more or less the conversation as I remember it. Back to Dublin 2025, where a more mature Jenny thinks to herself “this motherfucker” once again. Gwen proceeds to inform me and fellow flatmate that she and I actually have the same name, as hers, Gwenevere, is the [insert Welsh, Celtic, Britannic, or other nationality that it was too early in the morning for me to remember] of Jennifer. Okay, that’s genuinely cool, but I have to inform Gwen that Jenny is not short for Jennifer. And what question do I get back… “Is it on your birth certificate?” After reminding myself to take a deep breath and push aside nine year old fury, I simply replied yes, with a smile. Aren’t you proud of me? Well, you should be. I prefer my bagel like I prefer my name: plain. So for the last time…yes, it’s on my birth certificate.
Yours Truly,
Just Jenny
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