names
I'm still here. I haven't dropped out from the Net (again!). I've been musing about names, the nature of names, the meaning and power behind people's names, prompted by thoughts about the latest members of our small clan, brother #1's baby girl and husband's sister #4's baby boy. How neat it is to be an aunt seven times over. I was thinking this while doing the laundry the other day, and juggling such thoughts with a mental comparison between the detergent I'm using and the one my mother wants me to use. Also puzzling over whether I should use fabric softener on the bath towels. (Hey some of my best ideas have been gestated while doing the dishes and taking a shower!)
Anyway, names. People names. Baby names. I strongly dislike my name, and if not for fear of insulting my parents I would have gotten it changed legally. It isn't a bad name per se, afterall it was a homage of some sort to a woman who did some pretty radical stuff during her time. It's just that my name has two syllables, and it has an extremely feminine sound that connotes flowers of the fragile variety. My name simply does not speak to me. It's highly irrational perhaps, but I feel like I'm a three-syllable name kind of person, and though I don't mind the feminine I am far from fragile and flowery, not unless you're talking about the prickly kind borne by a type of wild grass that's abundant here. There were two other girls in my high school class who share my name. Our English teacher, probably wanting to avoid confusion in her grading records decided to call us by different names. The one who later became a beauty queen of sorts in university got to keep our original name. The second girl, who I remember was a bit on the rolly polly side and cute as a button, got called Pollen. Me, I got called something else that's not related to flowers. Tell me if this is not proof that the universe does not connect me to my name.
All my siblings, except one brother have really interesting first names, all two syllables, modern and androgynous names that are not common for their generation. All of them have second names that are three or four syllables and old names that again are not typically given to babies born during the 60s and 70s. And third names that are greek suffixes like Psi, Phi, Theta and Alpha. One could see how much deliberation and creative energies my parents expended in coming up with my siblings. Me I have only one name on my birth certificate, and a second name that was appended during my baptism. As I am the first born, one could perhaps blame first-time parenthood jitters behind my so-so name next to my siblings'. But the truth is much simpler. My father, who is the mad genius behind names was stranded somewhere when I pushed myself out of my mother's womb. My mother who I suspect was half drugged and all alone in the delivery room, (remember, I was born before the time of baby and mother-friendly modern birthing practice), had quickly succumbed to the cajoling of the nurses who thought it would be neat to name me after the patroness of nurses since we share the same birthday.
I grew up believing that names have power behind them. When we were small, I would call brother #1 by a mangled version of his name. I's do this usually when I'm pissed or when I'm trying to assert my big and older sister status on him. My mother, who is very religious in the Catholic fire and brimstone way caught me doing this name game one time, sat me down and explained how by mangling my brother's name I may accidentally call forth some demon from hell who answers to the same name. I think I was 4 or 5 at that time. Of course I stopped mangling names afterwards. I love my mother to bits, but the woman used to give me the fear of hell's damnation. Literally.
But parental teachings, no matter how convoluted they seem measured by another's yardstick or filtered through other worldviews, tend to stick like epoxy (quick dying glue to you). I may not believe in a Brueghelian version of hell anymore, but the notion that names have inherent power has lasted. Names are afterall words, and we all know how words can build and destroy, cut and mend, etcetera etcetera ad nauseum.
Being in my fifth decade on this planet, one would think that I should be so over this name issue.
In any case, I just hope my new niece and nephew end up connecting with the names their parents gave them. Welcome to the planet, Isabelle Vianca Zeta and Jonah Michael!
ps. pardon the grammatical lapses. i feel too rushed to re-read. i probably should change my playlist. PJ Harvey is maybe too urgent sounding.
Anyway, names. People names. Baby names. I strongly dislike my name, and if not for fear of insulting my parents I would have gotten it changed legally. It isn't a bad name per se, afterall it was a homage of some sort to a woman who did some pretty radical stuff during her time. It's just that my name has two syllables, and it has an extremely feminine sound that connotes flowers of the fragile variety. My name simply does not speak to me. It's highly irrational perhaps, but I feel like I'm a three-syllable name kind of person, and though I don't mind the feminine I am far from fragile and flowery, not unless you're talking about the prickly kind borne by a type of wild grass that's abundant here. There were two other girls in my high school class who share my name. Our English teacher, probably wanting to avoid confusion in her grading records decided to call us by different names. The one who later became a beauty queen of sorts in university got to keep our original name. The second girl, who I remember was a bit on the rolly polly side and cute as a button, got called Pollen. Me, I got called something else that's not related to flowers. Tell me if this is not proof that the universe does not connect me to my name.
All my siblings, except one brother have really interesting first names, all two syllables, modern and androgynous names that are not common for their generation. All of them have second names that are three or four syllables and old names that again are not typically given to babies born during the 60s and 70s. And third names that are greek suffixes like Psi, Phi, Theta and Alpha. One could see how much deliberation and creative energies my parents expended in coming up with my siblings. Me I have only one name on my birth certificate, and a second name that was appended during my baptism. As I am the first born, one could perhaps blame first-time parenthood jitters behind my so-so name next to my siblings'. But the truth is much simpler. My father, who is the mad genius behind names was stranded somewhere when I pushed myself out of my mother's womb. My mother who I suspect was half drugged and all alone in the delivery room, (remember, I was born before the time of baby and mother-friendly modern birthing practice), had quickly succumbed to the cajoling of the nurses who thought it would be neat to name me after the patroness of nurses since we share the same birthday.
I grew up believing that names have power behind them. When we were small, I would call brother #1 by a mangled version of his name. I's do this usually when I'm pissed or when I'm trying to assert my big and older sister status on him. My mother, who is very religious in the Catholic fire and brimstone way caught me doing this name game one time, sat me down and explained how by mangling my brother's name I may accidentally call forth some demon from hell who answers to the same name. I think I was 4 or 5 at that time. Of course I stopped mangling names afterwards. I love my mother to bits, but the woman used to give me the fear of hell's damnation. Literally.
But parental teachings, no matter how convoluted they seem measured by another's yardstick or filtered through other worldviews, tend to stick like epoxy (quick dying glue to you). I may not believe in a Brueghelian version of hell anymore, but the notion that names have inherent power has lasted. Names are afterall words, and we all know how words can build and destroy, cut and mend, etcetera etcetera ad nauseum.
Being in my fifth decade on this planet, one would think that I should be so over this name issue.
In any case, I just hope my new niece and nephew end up connecting with the names their parents gave them. Welcome to the planet, Isabelle Vianca Zeta and Jonah Michael!
ps. pardon the grammatical lapses. i feel too rushed to re-read. i probably should change my playlist. PJ Harvey is maybe too urgent sounding.