Growing up my sister and I were fans of Paul Simon, largely unintentionally. We were what you might call incidental fans: we heard his music all the time because our mother was the real fan. Frankly, I preferred the Doobie Brothers and Three Dog Night but Mom controlled the record player and the money. So it was Paul Simon Paul Simon Paul Simon.
I developed a little attitude about Paul Simon.
I could play my own records on my Sesquicentennial record player, but it was a sad collection of gift records from family, mostly. All I ever got were 45s of Bobby Sherman asking if some chick named my name loved him. GACK
I developed a little attitude about Bobby Sherman and the name Julie, too.
People could really get me with the name Julie. "Carbon Copy, hey Carbon Copy, which copy are you?
" was my personal favorite. Oh ha ha ha ha ha. I got a little tired of the assumptions people would make about me as a girl named Julie, "Huh," they'd say meeting me for the first time, a perplexed expression on their faces, "I thought you'd be a little more..." "Cheerleader-y?" I'd finish for them. "Yeah, that's it!" they'd reply, so relieved I got it that they didn't even bother with the level of offense that stereotype might deliver.
My last name was a pretty easy target too. I learned to tune out Paul Simon, Bobby Sherman, and my own name.
But then...just before college, Paul came out with Graceland and made the "Call Me Al" video with Chevy Chase. My sister was hooked and even I had to admit it was pretty catchy. She encouraged me to set aside the Icehouse, Scritti Politti and soundtrack to Some Kind of Wonderful for a day and pull out and listen to my mom's old Paul Simon records.
We found great music and I found a new nickname: Julio.
One of the songs we ended up liking best was "Me and Julio Down By the Schoolyard," especially my sister, largely because it gave her great fodder for mockery of her favorite target: me.
Flavia---my sister, the lucky one, the one who escaped being named Julie or Jennifer or Christy, like every other little girl born in the late 60s and early 70s---started calling me Julio. It should have bothered, and was intended to, but I sorta liked it.
First, it wasn't Julie. Second, it made me stand out in the crowd, which was generally my main intention. Third, it made life much easier. How? Okay, say for example Flavia and I were with friends crawling the mall. She could call out, "Julie" to get my attention but then 39 heads within ten feet would turn, and probably not mine. But if she called "Julio!" or her other version of it, "Julio-ette!" then only I would turn.
Last but not least, it was miles better than my previous nickname, Lola.
Lola is the sort of name that can give people the wrong idea. Thinking of myself as Lola occasionally gave me the wrong idea. Lola sounded like the kind of person people did things to. That's not me at all.
Julio, though, Julio is tough. Julio is maybe so tough she's a little bit against the law. Julio is tender, too, though, like crooning a Latin love song tender.
In the end, though, I am actually Julie. By adulthood (that would have been at some point in my mid-30s I think) I had finally settled down about my name. I'll never like it, per se, due to its connotations and commonality, but Julie---that is, me---didn't have to be common, flighty, peppy, French, or anything else you think of with that name.
Julie is the name my parents gave me. I didn't choose it, but there it is on every single official document of me. I must be Julie. It says so on my license.
But actually, that's the backwards and childish way of thinking of my name. I'm not Julie, Julie is me. I make who I am, I make what my name means, I make the connotation of Julie based on who I am.
In the end, a name is just a name.
And when Benny, Paul, Bobby or Flavia call me, they can call me whatever they want. Even Hussein.
I'll still be Julie. Julie Pippert. And you better believe I own it, people, when someone mocks my name. Oh and they still do. But it's fine by me if they want to say, "Oooh watch out or some day you're going to have to pay the Pippert!" Count on it!
Julie also endeavors to tickle your brain and your fancy at Using My Words.
Long-time readers of my personal blog (all three of them) know that the reason my blog is called "The Silent I" is that the "i" in my name is silent. Yes, my name is pronounced "Glenna", but I have gone through life being called, alternately, "Glen-nee-ya," "Glen-ya," and my favorite: "Glen-NIGH-ya" (think Shania, as in Shania Twain). 
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