What's in a Name?

Our names are our past, our present, and our future. They connect us to the history that has made us, our circumstances that in part define us, and sometimes, the possibilities that will be open to us.

Theodore Roosevelt said, "The only thing I want to leave my children is an honorable name." How thoughtful of him. But also, how privileged of him. 

When I stumbled across this Al Jazeera cultural series spotlight, "What's in a name," it was an idea I just couldn't shake. Thoughts of ascribed identity, historical implications, social mobility, and gender assignment, among other things, flooded my mind. These names we are given speak so much about who we are, but yet, leave so much out. One hundred years ago, a name would delineate our gender, our bloodline, our nationality, our ancestry, and sometimes, our socio-economic status. Now, arguably, none of that is true. But, nevertheless, names link our thoughts to ideas about the world. Without ever meeting a person, a name can paint a mental picture of what that person looks like. It can generate discriminatory thoughts. It can incite racial profiling. It can regionalize, nationalize or racialize people. Think about when you hear/see first names like Shemiqua, Bobbie Sue, Jesus, Josefina, Ahmed, Vladimir, Olga or Francisco. Immediate types came to mind, right? And last names, which are passed down through time, mean so much to some people. But in different ways, I would argue. 

In this article http://projects.aljazeera.com/2014/namestories/#intro , Al Jazeera highlights 4 main stories. The first, is Emily Tanaka, a half Caucasian (her mother), half Japanese (her father) woman. When she travelled to Japan to visit family, no one would believe she was actually Japanese, because she looks very Caucasian. Everyone was convinced she was married to a Japanese man. So when she got married (to a gentleman by the name of Smith), she dealt with an internal struggle of sorts as to whether or not she should keep her last name, take her husbands, or hyphenate. By taking her husbands, she felt she would lose part of her cultural identity, the part that she so proudly felt represented her father. The second is Cecilia Gentili, an Argentinian woman who when born, was named Alejandro Gabriel Gentili. In her 20's Cecilia decided she would move forward with a complete gender re-assignment (from male to female) so her body would reflect who she was on the inside. Through much of this time, friends referred to her as Alex or Alexa (nicknames from Alejandro). Once her surgeries were finished, Cecilia decided it only made sense to legally change her name. To her, Alex was so androgynous, commonly used as a name for both men and women. She wanted to affirm her identity by selecting a name that was unmistakably female, much as she was. Her name and her identity finally became aligned, and ultimately helped her to define to the outside world her true identity. The third is John H. Doe's story. He is a Korean American from New York City, New York whose given name at birth was Jang Huan Do. When he was in grade school, he urged his family to change their name to Doe, because it would help Americanize them. Also, he was tired of people calling him Jang (how it rhymes with sang), and Do (like to do, instead of Doe). In efforts to assimilate, his family did change, and from that point forward he went by the name John. In 3rd grade, while reading the dictionary, a friend pointed out his name was actually in there. John Doe was listed as a "legal, fictitious identity which does not exist." 

The meanings of their name differs in each story, but all represent part of their identity. Identities that these three have found equate to negotiations of who they are with society.

I feel on some level, I understand the struggle with ones' name and identity. Being adopted slightly later in life, I was completely cognizant of my name change. And so was everyone else in my grade. Having to explain why in 4th grade your name was one thing, and in 5th, another, is interesting to do for a 9 year old. But more than that, the change of my name signified a change in my identity. I was no longer Chelsey Bowen from Texas, I was Chelsi Hudson from Tennessee. I was, from that point forward, a Hudson. My "family" signified those currently in my life, that shared my name, instead of those in my past, who no longer did. I had to learn a new way to sign my name, and become used to responding to a different one. Eventually, I became used to it, as did everyone else, but that awkward time sticks with me. 

So, although names are always subject to others interpretations, it is not always indicative of who they are, where they come from, or what they believe.