My father wanted a boy. I was supposed to be called Albert. That was probably the beginning of why things got so complicated, because I wasn't a boy.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
As the youngest, I wanted to be my father's son and perpetuate the family name.
I was a mother's boy.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a boy. I really had gender issues.
It was a boy's name first.
I wasn't close to my father, but I wanted to be all my life. He had a funny sense of humor, and he laughed all the time - good and loud, like I do. He was a gay Irish gentleman and very good-looking. And he wanted to be close to me, too, but we never had much time together.
When I was a little girl - well, like, a teenager - I wanted to be Sam Jackson. I always wanted to be men.
I so desperately wanted to be Mr. Somebody. Instead, I was the little brother, included to a point.
I was raised by my father; I was daddy's girl.
When I knew I was pregnant four years ago with a boy, a friend suggested I call him Cary, but I initially resisted. There was only one Cary Grant. But a week before he was due, I started thinking it would be wonderful to pass the name on to him. And anyway, my father wasn't Cary to me. He was Dad.
We had the boy's name picked out, but we didn't have a girl's. When he turned out to be a boy, we were so relieved. Literally, in the middle of contracting and pushing, and with my wife being drugged - out and half - lucid, we were still coming up with names.