Musing on Names
I’ve been thinking about names lately—most likely because I read the names at my university’s graduation ceremony this past weekend. When I told friends I was doing this, a few visibly shuddered. They’ve heard the stories, seen the videos, watched the skits about how very wrong this can go.
So to say I was on high alert is an understatement. The last thing I wanted to do was to butcher someone’s name in front of thousands of people.
Because names matter.
I bet most of us have at least one name story—how we get called Ted instead of Todd or how we got our name—like my grandmother. The youngest of 12 children, her parents were apparently too exhausted by life and kin to go to the trouble of naming her. Her sisters and brothers called her Babe until she chose her own name—Laverne Delores—a name she was sure sounded like a movie star.
Names mean something. They declare, “This is who I am in the world.” They are a means to individuation. To being Real.
Which is why some people change their names. The one they were given does not match who they know they are inside.
Or maybe they want to mark a change. During my divorce process, my lawyer told me I could change my name to anything I wanted.
I seriously considered changing my name to Betsy Birch Johnson. The capricious and whimsical self inside thought, Why not?
But the more I thought about it, the more I decided that didn’t feel right.
Just like my original name.
I am adopted, and when I was in seminary, I got the health records of my biological parents as well as my actual birth certificate. This confused me, because I thought I already had it—I’d used it to get my driver’s license and passport.
But when I looked at this birth certificate, I saw my “original” name was Jennifer Marie.
There is nothing wrong with either of those names. In fact, some of my dearest friends have them, but Jennifer Marie is sooooo not my name, which is why my insides rear up like a wild horse at the thought of being called that.
Names matter.
Which is why it is so important to take care with what we call ourselves and others—for what are names but labels?
And what labels have we been given that itch and annoy?
What labels have we given others that force them to live in boxes?
To muse is to name with imagination and possibility.
The Big Energy Playing at the Edges of Our Lives muses, “Here I am, calling you by name.”
Mystery begs us to remember, “You are my beloved. In you, I am well-pleased."
Which of all the ways do you want to live?
Gently.
Gently on as you find your way Home.
names do matter. as someone with a perceived difficult name, i have spent my whole life having the world mispronounce my name and me letting it slide. when i returned to my name after years of using a nickname, i no longer accepted others mispronouncing it. i have no issue correcting them.
it is shocking to encounter people who refuse to make any kind effort in saying it correctly, sometimes asking if there is another name they could call me or simply dismissing it altogether, saying they will never remember it or get it right. a little effort is all it takes. a little attention to get it right. in a world where intention and attention are becoming lost arts, trying to get someone's name right goes a long way. it tells others a little bit about your approach to life. so, thank you for this.
I would love "Birch" as a middle name. :)
I've thought about this as well, since I've never loved my first name. At the same time, I've never been able to think of what I'd like instead. I guess the one I have is me. And that's interesting.
I also sometimes think about what it would be like if we'd given our children other names. We didn't know them when we chose them. And especially with the girls--we'd picked two names and who got which wasn't quite arbitrary, but I'm sure neither of us could say just what made us assign them the way we did.