Recently, a friend and I were out, and as we ran into people I knew, he asked, "Why do so many people call you by so many different names?"
I laughed.
Phillip is my given name, and for some reason, I've always hated it. I suppose it goes back to when, as a child, my mother would call me Phillip when I was in trouble (quite often). Nowadays, it's usually a clansman's wife who will call me Phillip, and when they do, they're usually just trying to get a rise out of me but sometimes they're trying to get my attention (as in "Phillip! Uncle Dave just shot himself in the foot!") or when I'm in serious trouble (like the time I set a beer can on the antique coffee table without a coaster, I was certainly called Phillip, and there was NO smile.)
The shortened version, Phil, I liked better because it didn't carry all the negative connotations that Phillip did. I went by Phil for many years, and it was the name printed on my business cards.
But still, I could go to a business conference and introduce myself as Phil Petree and, inevitably, when someone tries to 
remember my name, they'd stammer around as their brains tried to unravel all the "P" sounds. (I did find a solution which I'll explain in a moment.)
Then there's Pete. When you're in the US military, your last name is embroidered on a patch worn above your right pocket (your branch of service above your left). Invariably, your last name gets shortened or you get a nickname. For instance, Kawasaki becomes Ski and, well, Petree became Pete. This was true for my biological father when he served, and most other members of my clan.
Since the War of Independence, there has never been a generation of Petrees who haven't served in the US military, and, well, I guarantee you for as long as there have been names on uniforms, our comrades in arms have been calling us "Pete."
With so many of us who are called Pete, within the clan, we stick to our given names to avoid confusion. To illustrate the confusion, one day a bunch of us were out in the front yard at an aunt's house in LaFollette, Tennessee, when some guys drove by and one yelled out the car window, "Hey Pete!" Without thinking, we all turned and waved. After the car had passed, we all laughed about how programmed we'd become to answering to a name that none of us were born with.
Now, for that solution. At some point, about 25 years ago, I learned to introduce myself as "Phil Petree" and follow it up with "But my friends call me Pete." I discovered that my follow-up made my name easy to remember, and it made the interactions less awkward, which made fostering meaningful connections easier.
This one is really kinda funny. When I was little, I looked so much like my biological father that people from the Petree clan called me "RePete." To this day (60 years later), I have cousins (1st and 2nd) who STILL call me RePete. I accept the joke good-naturedly.
There are also some who call me Broken, a dig I gladly accept. No human is perfect, and I certainly have my faults. The difference is, I own who I am. I have always worked to fix my faults, to grow and become a better man. Some people just don't like having difficult conversations, so it's easier for them to label me than to take ownership of their own failings. I'm okay with that because I know calling me Broken is a projection of their own inability to address the issues and resolve relationship conflict. Call me what you will, but look in the mirror when you do.
In all honesty, there are those who call me A$$hole, but generally speaking, those are the folks who don't like boundaries or honest answers. Fine. That's about who you are, not who I am.
Trouble is also a name I've been called more than once… in fact, I hear it about 3 times a week, "Oh Gawd! Here comes Trouble!" (I don't think I need to go into details, but those who know, know.)
Speaking of trouble, I can't forget my military call sign, Dr. D. In the 40ish years since I left the service, I'm sure there have been others with the same call sign (and I hope they've worn it well). All of my former teammates (there are 8 of us still alive) and one other from "back in the day" will call me Dr. D. when the occasion calls for it… or Pete when it doesn't.
Then we have Froggy. During my divorce, my ex said, "I now know there's no prince on a white horse that's gonna come save me." Having been married to her, I was confused because I didn't know she needed saving or from what. A few nights later, I had some friends over for dinner and I relayed that story and one of my friends laughed and said, "Boy, you're only half prince, the other half is ALL frog!" We all laughed, and I accepted the joke with the love and honesty with which it was meant. 25 years later, and that group of friends still calls me Froggy, and I always smile when I hear it.
Pops is another name I wear. Usually, it's a friend of one of my kids who calls me that, but sometimes it's just a younger adult who chooses to spend time with me. It's an affectionate name, so I embrace it with the love in which it is meant. Once a month, I have coffee with a group of sorority sisters, and they all call me Pops. In thinking and writing about this, it too is a name that always makes me smile.
Alas, there's Dad. Something my kids call me (except for one, and that's a special case). Spoken by the right kids, Dad is meaningful and heartwarming. Spoken by others, it's painful and rings hollow. Either way, I still answer when I hear it.
Daddy (this is that special case) is one of my favorite names to answer to. When my daughter Katie was about 8, she said "Daddy wants…" and her mom asked "Which Daddy?" You see, there was her stepdad, Tom, and there was her biological dad, me. This wasn't the first time people had asked Katie, "Which dad?" so she gave the problem some thought and came up with her own rather brilliant solution. After discussing the solution with her stepdad and me (both of us smiling, nodding along with the reasoning and agreeing), she put the plan in place. Her stepdad became Dad because she lived with him, and she figured it was shorter and would save time, and she would call me Daddy. 26 plus years later, and this is still what she calls us. Oh, and if she's referring to both of us, then it's The Dads! (Tell me that didn't just make you smile!)
Then comes Grandpa. That's a fun name and one I enjoy. I'll admit, it took some getting used to, but I've learned to wear it well. It is a bit disconcerting when you have grandkids in college while the rest of your friends are just getting grandchildren, but that also means I've had longer to adapt. And, frightfully, the grandkids just keep on coming!
Next comes GGPa (pronounced GeeGeePa), and this is what my Great-Grandchildren call me. When you're older, you think "Oh, Grandchildren! How wonderful!" but the minute you have GREAT-grandchildren, you think "Oh shit! What have I done!" and you think of it in the context of legacy and wonder which generational cycles of trauma will be repeated and which successes will carry forward. Then you experience all manner of personal growth and nightmarish stuff like being introduced at a 1st grade class party as "Great Grandpa!"
Of course, there's the inevitable Honey, Darling, Sweetheart, Dear, and all the other pet names that come with a romantic relationship. But, honestly, the last I heard any of those names was the morning of February 4th, 2015, when my girlfriend kissed me goodbye, walked out the front door of my condo, and was arrested by the FBI.
And finally, there's Petey. There is only one person who has ever called me Petey, and that's my Bestie, and she's called me that for decades. I am her Petey. (I was reminded that my other Bestie's granddaughter also calls me Petey - and Tickle Monster!)
So, how can you tell my relationship status with people? Except for Daddy and Petey, you can't. Most of my family calls me Phil, but I do have a few cousins who call me Pete. I have friends I've known for 50+ years who call me Pete, and other friends I've known just as long who call me Phil. I think it depends on how we met.
Do I have a preference? Nah, just make sure to call me for dinner!