By Sally Stang, Special Writer
Call me “Isabella Rosellini.” OK, it’s not my name, but, seriously, I wish it were. Say any Italian name out loud and hear how it rolls off the tongue. Alas, I’m not Italian and I don’t have a flowing, mellifluous name, like “Fetuccini Alfredo” or “Benito Mussolini.”
I have a funny name. At least, that is the impression I get from being the owner of this title since birth.
Oh, it’s not as odd as “Ima Hogg” or “Ginger Snapp” or “Jim Sox,” but, even so, both of my names have always been targets of gentle mockery and unwanted attention. People just like to play with it.
On a daily basis, I am greeted with some sort of salutation like “Sally Sally Bobally, banana fana . . .”(you know the rest). Silly Sally is another. Sally O’Malley and Silly String, too.
The list goes on: Salamander, Salligater, Salmonella, Salabama, Salipatica, El Salvador.
I am most often assailed with “Mustang Sally”— what with Stang being paired with Sally. Since the song came out in 1966, I have been, henceforth, doomed to bear the moniker, along with some painfully bad singing from people who think they are the first to notice the connection. Sigh.
Recently, a friend of mine was in a British pub when he happened to drop my name. My friend’s drinking buddy exclaimed, “Sally Stang? What is that? An American snack food?”
”Sally” is not a bad name, but I’ve never cared for it. It’s a perky name conjuring a fun-loving, likeable girl. A girl, not a grown woman. It’s a young person’s name, like Cindy or Patti or Debbie. However, these girls have the option to grow into a mature Cynthia, Patricia or Deborah.
And “Sal” (which is what most people call me as an automatic default name) is the name of a “good ol’ broad.” Reminds me of Sally Rogers from “The Dick Van Dyke Show” — one of the boys.
True Trivia: There are more songs using the name “Sally” than any other female name! I’ve counted about 80 songs from Victorian times to the present. Strangely, it doesn’t rhyme with much and it’s never been a hugely popular name (less so than many common names like Sue, Kathy, Carol, Debbie, etc.) yet the songs with “Sally” keep a-coming!
I’ve thought about switching my nom de plume for several decades. I “try on” new names all the time. I have become rather fixated with this notion since I do feel that names (via their sound) create their own aura.
When I was in the eighth grade, I tried to change the spelling of my first name. I started writing my name as “Sali Stang” in the corner of my school papers. That is, until my English teacher wrote the word (with a big red circle and arrow pointing to my name) “Turkish?” I was humiliated! Did my youthful identity crisis amuse you, Mr. Queenan?
Of course, getting married seemed a viable (although, for me, extreme) way of getting a name change.
Years ago, I worked with a man whose last name was Schnorbus. For a while, I tried on his last name. I would say “Sally Schnorbus” out loud (go ahead, say it) and then laugh my hiney off. If I have to have a funny name, I might as well go over-the-top with it.
There was another co-worker with the surname of Lally. I threatened to marry him so I could be Sally Lally, then divorce him and marry our other co-worker, Mr. Lang, and become Sally Stang-Lally-Lang. Then I announced that I would divorce him too and marry LingLing, the panda from the Washington National Zoo, then annul that relationship (upon discovering that she’s a she), then marry the musician, Sting. My name would be Sally Stang-Lally-Lang-LingLing-Sting.
But I digress . . . ahem.
The actual meaning of “Stang” in Old Norse is what the word sounds like — a stick, a pole, a rod, a staff, to sting, to poke. The original “Stang” family possibly made spears or long fighting cudgels and might have been soldiers. Or, more likely, they made canes and crutches. Or whittled.
”Stang” has a vaguely Klingon sound to it. Or perhaps a clunky Hogwart’s professor sort of name? “This is Professor Stang, your Ancient Pornographic Runes instructor.”
There is a certain caught-in-the-glottis finality to it. Anything ending in the letter G or K has that blunt, hitting-a-brick-wall ending to it, like wrong or smack. It rises up after the soft silliness of “Sally” like a bang or a clang. Or a sharp pang.
Dang. At this advanced age, I suppose I’m stuck with this name. Hmm … “Sally Stuck?”
Sally Stang is a Lambertville resident and an expert whittler.
