1952. Charleston, South Carolina. In the time of Billye Lou's and Allen Ray's, Michelle was a real exotic name.

On first days at school in southeastern Texas, teachers called me Michael. I'd die of embarrassment. About sixth grade, the Beatles came out with..., then everyone knew how to pronounce my name. Life got better.

In high school and college in Arkansas, guy after guy came up to me singing, "Me Shell, Mah Bell" just like they were the first. At first, it was cute, then it got old.

My heart was won only once with that song when in 11th grade, a sophisticated new guy in town drew me an invitation to the drive-in with all the words to Michelle in FRENCH. Ooo-la-la!

Older and wiser, I am now appreciating the charm of being named Michelle. See how it just rolls off my tongue: Michelle, Michelle, Michelle. I've learned to embrace my name instead of resenting it because it made me different.

And guess what? I'm not the only Michelle on the block anymore. Yes, there are thousands, millions, perhaps, of us. And, by golly, if they've got a homepage, then eventually I'm going to find them and have them report for duty here.