GIMME AN E!

I’m obsessed with the spelling of my last name. Specifically, the half preceding the hyphen: Procter (note the E). It’s a simple enough name. Seven measly letters. Apparently, it rhymes with doctor, but is that any reason for nearly everyone I meet to misspell it as ProctOr? If we must get technical, “doctor” actually rhymes with Procter, not the other way around. How many people do you know who pronounce doctor like “dok-TOR”? Nope, they say “dok-TER.” Like Procter. I’m fed up with the rhymes-with-doctor excuse. Doctor doesn’t even rhyme with dok-tor, for Pete’s sake.

I come by my obsession naturally. Because I’m weird—or so people tell me. If that’s not a natural way to develop an obsession, I don’t know what is. However, the longer version of the story begins with my great-grandfather moving to Canada from England (where they know how to spell Procter—I have a picture of the sign on Procter Street in London to prove it!) in 1887 and taking up 320 acres in 1892. His farm remains in the extended family. I live close enough that I can go dance on his grave if I want to (and I have—no one notices my gleeful self in the tiny family plot on a hill overlooking the land where my grandfather and his brothers and sister were raised). Until I was five, I grew up within whispering distance of both this farm and my grandfather’s farm. The “community” was so tiny that 98% of us definitely knew how to spell Procter. No duh, we shared the name! It never occurred to me that the dastardly ProctOr spelling would haunt me the rest of my life and is probably the driving force behind my becoming a writer. My mission in life is to see Procter spelled correctly (you know, my way), and if the only route to securing my goal is by getting my name plastered on book covers, so be it.

I remember my mother registering me for Grade One upon our move to “town” when I was six. The principal recorded my name, which my mother attempted to get her to write as Cindy Procter. Let’s forget for a moment that the principal taught my father in a one-room schoolhouse on the family farm when he was a child and therefore she should have known better, she informed my mother that my legal name must be Cynthia, because everyone knows Cindy is a nickname for Cynthia (uh, not necessarily), and then ProctEr magically transformed into ProctOr, because, well, she or some secretary after my mother corrected her wrote it down that way. For the next three years, my library card read Cynthia Proctor. Every time I looked at the thing, I wondered, “Who the dumb-puppy is this girl?” I’d cross out the Cynthia and correct the E, and all would be hunky-dory…until a new teacher happened along. Then—argh!!—I’d become ProctOr again.

I’ve met a woman with the last name Docter (note the E). When she spells it out, she explains, “Susan Docter, with an E.” And her name gets spelled right. Whereas I can stand right in front of someone saying, “Cindy…(which, thank God, my mother didn’t spell as Cyndi or Cindi or Cindee or whatever-else-have-you, because then I’d really be in a turmoil)…Procter-King. It’s hyphenated, so I’ll spell it for you.” (Truthfully, I’m spelling it because I know what’s likely to occur if I don’t, regardless of the hyphen. And, even when I do spell it…) “P-R-O-C-T-E…No, sorry, that should be an E…An E. E! As in A-B-C-D-E. No, no, you wrote an O. It’s an EEEEE!” Upon which the person usually looks up and says, “Did I?” Sigh.

“Then a hyphen,” I’ll say. “And then King.” Half the time, the person glances up again and asks, “How do you spell that?” “Um, King. K-I-N-G. Like the guy who sleeps with the Queen…if he weren’t a prince. You know, if he ruled. If she weren’t living so damn long. If the British male monarchs didn’t have such evidently weak constitutions that Queen Victoria, Elizabeth I and II have all outlived them—maybe then we peons across the pond would know how to spell King!” (Sorry, little digression.)

I’ve tried explaining the spelling by saying, “Procter. With an E at the end, not an O.” I made that mistake with the editor of the student newspaper during my university days, while attempting to squeeze out the correct spelling for the by-line of the one and only story I ever penned for the guy (I couldn’t in all conscience continue writing for an editor who spelled my name wrong—besides, I had better things to do, like visit the SUB Pub). He wrote my name as “Proctore,” then smiled and said, “Oh, is that French?” No, you’re a moron! Thankfully, the dweeb-on-a-stick completely neglected to give me a by-line. That’s okay. It was a crappy story, written after a long night at the SUB Pub.

This is what I don’t understand. I appreciate that, somehow, somewhere along the line, Proctor became the more popular spelling. I realize you won’t find “procter” in the dictionary, whereas “proctor” is some sort of university student exam supervisor, but, but…I’m not a noun or a verb, I’m a person, damn it! A ProctEr. In the name of all that’s unholy, can someone tell me how, when Procter and Gamble is one of the largest companies on the continent and they spell the name right, the rest of North America bungles it? Look at the fine print on the toothpaste or laundry detergent in your house. Study the credits for the sponsor of your favourite TV soap opera. It’s ProctEr and Gamble, not ProctOr-Silex. Yes, that bleepin’ small-appliance manufacturer possessed the foresight to plaster the abominable spelling of ProctOr all over our toasters instead of in miniature print on toothpaste tubes that no one notices is there!

All right, all right, I know I’m bordering on neurotic, but imagine your world devoid of the E. Without Es, the Wheel of Fortune would sound like a Dr.-Seussified Italy: Whool of Fortuno. Sleep would become sloop, and mean would soon moan. Surely, you sense my despair? When pushed to the edge of my sanity (not a far distance, I assure you), dealing with Procter-abusers in the following manner usually/sometimes/maybe-30-%-of-the-time results in the correct spelling of my name (ah, victory, she is fleeting!)...

I’ll receive a missive with my name invariably misspelled:

Dear Cindy Proctor-King,

Please immediately forward your overdue payment of ten dollars to ADDRESS LABELS PRINTED BY MY PET ROCK, or we will be forced to send a big, bloaty guy named Geoffrey to your place of business to pummel you.

Yours, Ted Green

Grrr. I write back:

Doar Tod Groon,

It will bo a froozing day in holl whon I sond you ton dollars for tho pioco-of-crap addross labols with my namo misspollod! I’vo callod you throo timos now trying to roctify tho mistako, and oach timo ProctEr gots spollod wrong! If anyono namod Gooffroy appoars at my placo of businoss, not only will I call tho cops, but I will toll ovoryono I know sooking a roliablo firm to print thoir addross labols that ADDROSS LABOLS PRINTOD BY MY POT ROCK is dofinatoly not it.

Sincoroly,
Cindy Procter-King

I may never receive the correct address labels, but at least I’ve made my point. And if you think I’m obsessed with the spelling of my name, let me introduce you to my friend, Line.

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Bio: Cindy Procter-King writes romantic comedy novels and short stories. She regrets that while she’s apt to bean anyone who misspells her name, she can’t guarantee she won’t misspell the names of others, although, rest assured, they are usually a heckuva lot trickier to get right than Procter.

Visit Cindy’s wobsito at http://www.cindyprocter-king.com. Don’t forgot tho E! Or tho hyphon.