Teresitas abounded in my generation. At our St. Theresa’s High School diamond jubilee alone this year, five surfaced, but they were easily connectible by their nicknames to Teresita—Tessie, Terry, Tere, Tita. I am myself the unpredictable Chit.

Names are obviously not for one to choose, and going by the name Teresita, or any of its variants, one can feel intimidated knowing the patron saint one was named for: They were not just saints, they were Carmelites, saints of an order known for the severest of the austerities.

And Teresa of Ávila made these austerities so much more severe that when Thérèse of Lisieux came three centuries later she had the toughest act to follow. Both mystics and contemplatives, they are among the most outstanding female saints in the Catholic heaven. Both have been declared Doctors of the Church, two of only four women—all 35 others are men. Only the pope can bestow the doctorate, and that happens only after a saint’s life and writings have become a part of the Catholic living doctrine.

Our family had two revered Aunt Teresas: Tita Titik and Tita Tuting, an aunt by affinity. But purposely or not, they, too, hid behind nicknames that didn’t become the impeccable dignified ladies that they were. But, again, in our clan—or could it be a generational eccentricity?—we’ve had the propensity for nicknaming children strangely; it happens either out of the fondest affection or the conceded difficulty of other children pronouncing names.

My grandmother Lola Enchay (Inocencia) herself had a special devotion to St. Thérèse of Liseuix. She had a two-foot statuette. I remember its most beautiful ivory face, lifelike eyes and lashes. For sure, we three Teresita cousins were named for her—Tessie, Tere, and me, Chit. (Chit is in fact—thank God!—the surviving part, from childhood, of Terechichit.)

Inday

There was one Teresita answering to the nickname Inday, the favorite nickname given most Visayan girls of any name. But one day, early in our youthful friendship, she, my favorite Inday, blurted out an implicit confession: she called me Tokaya (Namesake).

The best-disguised nicknames for Teresa I know is Resel, a combination, I imagine, of two names, and Hedy. Hedy junked Teresa altogether, and could well afford to. She had this glamorous second name, a name made desirable and popular by the gorgeous actress of the time, Hedy Lamarr. My friend Hedy decided to blow her Teresita cover only the other day, to another Teresita, who surely understands—me.

Teresa, according to Google, comes from the Greek word “Theresa,” meaning a woman of Therasia or summer. The more I look into it, the more I’m appreciating the name, as did many parents of my generation, I presume. It’s not only a pretty name, to be sure, but one to be proud of. And I wonder now why I went through all the trouble distancing myself from it and sticking with Chit. Ironically, Terechichit would even be closer.

But such is life: We want to be something other than what we are. We want to be different and in so doing we don’t appreciate what we have until we lose it or it loses us. Thank God I didn’t lose my connection to Teresita altogether—it is and will always be my legal and formal name in my passport and all other legal documents.

But there had been times I hardly associated it with myself anymore. Proof is I nearly missed my plane home once from Hong Kong. The public-address system kept paging a Mr. Teresita, the last passenger unaccounted for on a flight to Manila. It was only when I heard that the departure gate number had been changed that it dawned on me that that Teresita was me.

Anyway, it’s no small consolation, but I’m told the name Chit itself is pretty awesome in Sanskrit. As husband Vergel, in his blackjack lingo, is fond of saying, “Forced to good ka na.” So I’ll stay with Chit. But to reinforce my sense of nominal loftiness, he reminds me, suppressing a chuckle, that I’m also now a Santos—saint in the plural! If I was already intimidated by the saintliness of Teresita, how on earth do I live up to Chit Santos!