Bastian, Say My Name!

For the last couple of days, I've had a bit of time to ponder "what's in a name."
I've got these friends who have several children. These are the safe types-- they actually drive under the speed limit on the freeway and their idea of a wild time is popcorn on Sunday evening. They use oil to pop it instead of hot air-- those extra calories give them a big thrill. They are very good sort of people all around. You'd want them for neighbors because they're not throwing loud parties, and they keep their lawn immaculate. They'll bring you jam they canned themselves from berries grown in their own backyard. And they've got several adorable children-- all with very traditional, boring names. Their kids will never get made fun of because a) the names are so boring, no one could even come up with a witty nickname and b) half of their classmates will have the same name.
Now, don't get me wrong. There's something strong about a woman named Mary and noble about a man named John. I'm not into weird names like "Neveah" (because who thinks "Heaven" spelled backwards doesn't somehow invoke hell?) or weird spellings. Yes, "Jemima" has certain connotations, but I like the name. It's pretty, especially for a name ending in "a" (sorry-- I know that in most languages, a name isn't feminine without the "-a," but I've always been more attracted to names with alternate endings). One of my friends named his daughter "Clementine" and they call her "Minnie." Will people sing a folk song to her all her life? Probably, but who cares? People won't forget sweet Minnie, and someday my Gemma can hand out packets of syrup for her student body president campaign.
But children's names have very little relevance in my life at the moment, because I'm a barren spinster. It's another type of naming that gives me pause these days.
I think naming something empowers it. That's why "DTR" (define-the-relationship) talks are always so important to the person more emotionally invested in a relationship. There's this unparalleled bliss when you know you can legitimately call all the hanging out you do a relationship, or rename that girl or guy you hang out with your girlfriend or boyfriend or fiancee or wife or husband. "He" is more than "Peter," for example. "He" is "boyfriend" which means, "He" is yours.
But this goes far beyond relationships-- it touches everything. Having a problem? There are those who like to talk about it, because they think that identifying it will help them overcome it. "What's going on with my body?" they ask. "Cancer? Well, OK. I hate it, but now I know what I can do to overcome it." Or, there are those who think that if they acknowledge it, the THING will get stronger and overtake them, eg., Voldemort. These are the head-in-sand types (and we've all been there, haven't we?) who hope that if they ignore something, it'll go away. Sometimes if I've been inexplicably, unfoundedly mad at someone, for example, and then I get over it, I don't want to talk it out. I just hope (almost always without satisfaction) that everyone can forgive and forget and move on and pretend it didn't happen. It never works, but it is often my preference. Then again, there are times I like to face a problem head-on. You admit to me you've got, or you notice I've got, some sort of issue? Well, we've named it. So I say, let's solve it. We can't bury it if it's not dead, because suffocating it will make us murderers, and it'll just haunt us later.
Even nicknames aren't safe. Again, to use a Harry Potter example, calling Voldemort "He who shall not be named" empowered evil. You might have noticed my hesitancy in using people's real names on this blog under certain circumstances. If it's someone I feel secure with-- someone who falls solidly into a friend category, then no problem. I love you Sokphal and Lou and Pam and Mir and Kari and so on. I'm not afraid to talk about Reuben or Jacob(s) or Sean or Grant. With one noted exception, I'm not worried about abandonment. But with those girls who were part of the "I Hate Rachel" club or the boys I've been "in love" with, you won't find a name. Not a real one. And it's likely wise for me to stop even using the nicknames, because that makes them real. The Ray relationship proved it-- I'd no sooner named him, called him my boyfriend, and posted pictures of us together than it all came tumbling down like the Berlin Wall-- but instead of freeing us from the "oppression" of fidelity, I was long buried in the rubble.
Still, what's a girl to do? I know what you're thinking: just stop talking.
But I can't. I name everything. The swallows on my parents porch are "the Santiago Family." The chicken in the yard is Bertha, and her rooster boyfriend is Esteban. Skye's fetus is "Little Bean" and I suggested Ashley and Robert name their future first-born son Gargamel. One of the boys who sat behind me in church yesterday is now "Ginger" even though it would be just as easy to call him Cameron, if I choose to call him anything at all. Niece is Zozobra and my parents are Mamar and Father Pio. Pamsicle and Nashty and T and Trevie and Goonie and Uncles Brad and Caleb cannot be called by their regular names... I love them too much. Richard Luna even gave me a nickname, but it's really more of a nickname for my hair-- I don't think of myself as "The Duchess," just my insane, expanding coif.
So I'll keep talking. Even though I know I'm sabotaging myself by even acknowledging non-boyfriend (whose name is Jeff, and who it would be easy to love except he doesn't love) and The Guy I Flirt With (Rudy, because it's safe and no one means anything real) and the one no one else will ever measure up to (Andrew). I mean, now it's done. Naming them ends it all. Tonight, I'm staying home to play dirges on my piano.