Once again…welcome to my house. Come freely. Go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.
–Bram Stoker/Dracula
Home – is where I want to be
But I guess I’m already there
I come home – -she lifted up her wings
Guess that this must be the place–Talking Heads/This Must Be The Place
One of the most important parts of feeling welcome in a place is how you are greeted. There are a lot of other things that go into a continued feeling of welcome, but the greeting sets the tone. Having someone greet me with a name no one else uses always makes me feel special.
When I was a little kid, the neighbor across the street would always greet me with “hey Chevelle, go on in the house and have a beer. ” Not a typical greeting from an adult to a 7 year old girl, perhaps, but it always made me feel like I was part of the family. No, they didn’t really let me have beer. He drove a Chevy Chevelle that he was always working on, and he loved that car, so I knew that if he called me Chevelle he must like me. He was kind of a big tough guy, so it made it less scary for me to be there. Things are very simple when you are 7.
Another friend’s dad would always greet me with “Meeeshell!” and a big dopey smile when I came to their house. It always made me smile right back. I don’t know if it was the dopey grin or that he had his own personal name for me that made me feel so special. Both, I guess.
Nicknames tend to make me feel like a person cares enough about me to think I deserve a name that’s just for me. Maybe it really just means they can’t remember my name at all.
I choose to believe it’s the former.
In addition to Chevelle and MeeeShell!, at various points in my life I’ve been called Shelly, Shellyshel, MJ, Jolin, Mici, Miche, Micia, Mici-elle, Mishishell, Mishelly, Michou, Michelle-ina, Michelina, Micetta and Michette. Until this very second, I had no idea I’d been called so many variants of my name. I don’t think of myself as a nickname person, but seeing this list is making me reconsider! Of course, Italians and French people are responsible for a lot of those names, and they’re sort of culturally prone to nicknames.
Oddly, I’m not overly fond of normal terms of endearment. I don’t mind if friends call me sugar or sweetie, but I’m not thrilled about it from lovers. A guy I was dating used to call me “dear” and I made him stop because I kept thinking he’d forgotten my name. Which, in retrospect, could have easily been the case. Another exception for the Italians–they can call me tesoro or amore any time. Well, you know, if I’m ever single again.
Actually, you know what?
If I’m single, and you’re a single Central/Northern Italian, you can call me pretty much anything you want and I’ll feel very…welcome.
I might even bat my new false eyelashes at you.