For Kathy, Patty and Mary

It is a sad and shocking fact of my young life that my parents named me Mary Elizabeth Cep by mistake. I’ve known since I was five that my true name is Lola. I don’t remember where I first heard it, but I loved it immediately. Lola… Lola is romantic and mysterious. It’s evocative and resonant. It’s unusual – as I am. Mary Elizabeth sounds like the maid in an English drama. You know, “Mary Elizabeth,” smarms the Lady of the Manor, “please show Mr Smudgins into the parlour.” Having a generous nature I can forgive my parents this error, major though it is. I can see that it wasn’t really their fault. They both watch PBS (Public Broadcasting Service) a lot. But that doesn’t mean that I have to accept their mistake as final.

When I become an actor I’m going to legally change my name to Lola Elspeth Cep. Or maybe Lola Elspeth Sep. I haven’t made up my mind about the spelling yet.

My family, naturally, has always stubbornly refused to call me Lola.

“Mary’s the name on your birth certificate,” says my mother, “and that’s the name we’re using.”

My close relatives are astoundingly unimaginative, especially considering that we share a common gene pool. But then another of the more shocking truths of my young life is that no one in my family truly understands me. They seem to think I’m going through a stage, although even my mother admits that this stage has been lasting a pretty long time. Like since I was born. Whenever I announce what I’m going to do when I become an actor, my mother always laughs and says, “What do you mean when?”

She calls me the Drama Queen, though not to my face.