Ah, the Weight of a Name

A name isn’t ever just a name. There’s weight to what we’re called. Sometimes, the weight of a name is measured by generations, or an ancestor that holds special meaning to the ones who named us.

We name our children with purpose.

The blood we pass on gifts them with the strength of Vikings and nomads and far-away tribes. We gift them with memory and love when we say “your middle name is that of my father.”

I remember when my husband and I were ready to choose a name for our son.

Some names never stood a chance given unfortunate characteristics of long-ago classmates. Others because they reminded us of something that felt like less than he might become.

I like my son’s name. It’s strong, and his middle name is that of my father. His last name is his own father’s.

But even before there was a word we chose to call him, he was himself. He was who he’ll become. 

I suppose the same holds true for him. I was a feeling; his safety, his warm place, long before he had words.

Would he still be him had I named him differently? Would I be different had I not been named Kristi?

Ah, the weight of a name.

My name is Kristi.

My name is Kristi and I have eye bags and wrinkles and am sometimes surprised by how old I am in photos. Was I always this old, this year?

My name is Kristi, although I answer to others. Pet names. Sis, or Kris from my dad and brothers. Sometimes, I answer to “excuse me?” but try to avoid “M’am” when possible.

My name is Mommy. This week, my son’s been trying on Mom and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

Mom feels like letting go of baby and toddlerhood, which I’m not ready for. It also feels like sleeping for an extra two minutes because a boy who calls me Mom rather than Mommy is certainly one who can put on his own underpants. Wipe his own butt.

Years ago, I was Sweetly, and that felt like everything. Now it feels like a name I relaxed in, grew out of, and finally rinsed off. Swam through, maybe. It should have always been forbidden. It was forbidden, but I was seen. I was Sweetly. Now, I am not. 

I’ve been called Bitch, although not recently as far as I know, and it’s not a name I’ve ever specifically identified with.

Ah, the weight of a name.

My name is Kristi.

It’s what I’ve worn for the longest time. I’ve been called Kristi almost since my beginning. I’ve loved the mes I’ve been.

Before being Kristi, my name was Esther. In her womb, but never in her arms. She later told me she touched my cheek as she said goodbye.

I don’t know what they called me for eight days between being Esther and Kristi.

I wonder what happened during those days though. How much of being held or being ignored made me me? Probably, what happened during those eight days made me me, more than being Esther or Kristi does or did. Was I nameless or was I baby X? Maybe, there was a common name. Jane, for a girl. John, for a boy. 

How much of who we are are the stories that come with what we are named? Or of not having one, for eight days or for longer, for some?

The stories behind our names are something, too. We can live up to them, or beyond them, when they require us to do so. My husband is one of three Roberts. They were Old Bob, Bob, and Little Bob. He decided on Robert when he was in middle school, I think.

Ah, the weight of a name. Or of being nameless.

My name is Kristi, although that’s not what it says on my birth certificate. On it, I am Kristine. Kristine Jane. Jane for my mother and for hers.

I’ve had three last names in my life, not counting when I was Esther. So, maybe four. I don’t know what last name was on that first birth certificate although I suspect it was one of my ancestors given to me by the one who named me, touched my cheek, and said goodbye.

Ah, the weight of a name.

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post. This week’s sentence is “They call me…”

Feel free to write about what people call on you to do, why they ring your phone when they could text, a name that you’re called (your first name, Mommy, honey, beotch, whatever) or anything that speaks to you when you read “They call me…”