I wanted to change my name at least twice in the past.

Grade 2

In grade two I asked my mom if I could change my name. I was a big Superman fan and I had some plans. My mom said “yes”. Looking back, I am not sure if she didn’t actually hear my question or she was trying to pacify me.   At the age of seven, I didn’t care. I got the answer I wanted and set my plans in motion.

We had wide-ruled notebooks for our subjects, all with smoky pink-coloured covers. I dug out one of my books and erased “Randy Bassett” from the front of the book. I proudly printed “Clark Kent” in its place. I was proud to be Superman’s alter-ego. Sometime later, I had to hand the book in and I did so without flinching. The next day, the teacher handed back all the booklets and saved mine for last. She just simply asked who was Clark Kent. The snickering from the class instantly crushed my pride of being Superman, but since I was the only one without a booklet, I sheepishly stood up. With an eraser in tow, I decided to resume my existence as Randy Bassett.

Later Years

Years later in my early and mid-20s, I thought about changing my name again. I wanted to create more space between my stepfather and me. I was also thinking that he didn’t deserve any good things that I might bring to the name. I realize now that last thought was ego-laced, but I didn’t want him to have any credit for anything I had done or was going to do. The bitter taste of being raised by his hands was still fresh and I wanted a way to make it go away. Cases of beer didn’t remove the taste. Maybe changing my name would neutralize the acidic memories that lingered.

But what would I change my name to? I ruled out “Clark Kent” this time. I thought about reverting back to my birth name – Randolph Edward Paulin. My mom was only 17 years old when I was born. My birth father’s name was Edward Paulin, with, obviously, part of his name embedded in mine. When I was less than 3 years old, my mom and birth father parted ways and my mom met George Bassett. They quickly got married and had my sister, Elizabeth. That was in 1963. According to my revised birth certificate, my name wasn’t officially changed to Bassett until after I started school. George insisted that my middle name was to be dropped since it was the same as my birth father. I became Randolph (Randy) Bassett. Maybe I could change it back to my birth name?

I mulled over other options for names. Aubrey came up a number of times for a first name. I never really came up with solid ideas for alternative last names.

I Think I’ll Keep It

After a short while, I set aside the notion of changing my name. This had nothing to do with my desire to distance myself from George, but that was still there. It had everything to do with my Uncle John. My Uncle John was George’s brother and he was a great man. He was a few years younger than George and he adored George when they were younger. That changed as they became adults and Uncle John was able to see things he hadn’t seen before. I always loved seeing my uncle – he was funny, seemingly always wearing a huge smile. I can still hear his large, jovial laugh, and he passed away over 13 years ago. He was also a loving father who always put his kids first.

I had always admired, respected and loved my Uncle John. He made me feel like a genuine Bassett, even without the name pumping through my veins. There was no way I ever wanted to disrespect or hurt my Uncle John by changing my name, so I simply discarded that idea.

My idea of changing my name had its purpose – to create distance from my stepfather. Like many teens and youths, I spent many years trying to garner the attention of the person I thought I needed it from the most. As wisdom started to slowly trickle in during my late 20s and 30s, I realized that the attention from George was no longer needed. Somewhere, somehow that void had diminished. It was still there, but it was more of a tickle than a gnawing need.

Distance, Space and Time

George and I only lived 10 minutes apart, but we only saw each other twice in the 20 years prior to his death. Although the miles between us were short, the years created a gap between us that I simply accepted as being so. Near his end, I no longer felt angry. Actually, I felt somewhat sorry for my stepfather. He missed so much, never getting to see his wonderful grandchildren, two fabulous children bearing the name Bassett.

It seems that the distance I needed came in space and time, not in changing my name.