What's In a Name?

As a child of 7 I didn't know how dear to me was my last name, given me at birth. Like most children who know they are loved, I was proud of my family name, proud to belong as a lifetime member to this exclusive little club.  How delicious to have a strong sense of self because not only did I feel loved, I knew there was some history behind my father's name. I was a part of something bigger than me, bigger than the little universe of my backyard; something timeless and generational. Now, all this was something I felt deep down inside, rather than something I thought about consciously. Tales of my ancestors were passed on to me in a careless manner. We weren't studying history, there would be no pop quizzes. Offhandedly my dad told us about his great-grandfather, the circuit preacher, or his little Irish great-grandmother who had a little village in Ireland named after her.

I soaked all this in unconsciously while going about my play, not the least concerned or much interested in dead ancestors. I had the luxury of not caring until I was old enough for such things to mean something to me. In the meantime I went about my play with cheerful abandon, happy enough to be a child in the here and now, and only dimly aware that others had gone before me, relatives who loved and laughed and fought and died with impressive courage. Of those who weren't so courageous I didn't hear a whole lot, but I don't think my dad was trying to shield me from anything. He was simply proud of his ancestors who had done something noteworthy with their lives, and it showed in his tone of voice every time he began another of his stories.

One of the first things stripped from a prisoner is his name, and thus his unique identity. I think I know something about what that does to an individual, for I became a prisoner of sorts to my new step-dad's terrorism during my 7th year. Without my consent, or any kind of a discussion, my step-dad's first decree as the new head of our household was to change my last name to his.

My cheeks flush all these decades later remembering the shame of this unwanted transfer. That I should be called by the name of my abuser was nearly too much to bear! I loathed his last name, longing desperately to have my own once again as it was given me at birth.

Rather than simply feeling that my last name had been changed, I went about feeling as though I had no name at all. Perhaps this is because I refused, in the privacy of my mind, to acknowledge his last name as my own. How quickly had I become un-named! I had no words at the age of 7 to express any of this; now from my adult perspective I understand so much about that situation, about why the lack of my true name had such an impact on me.

Though I was quite the tomboy, I also loved dolls. Give me a new doll and what's the first thing I did? Named it, of course. My doll needed her own unique identity to express her personality, her place in the hierarchy of my beloved family of dolls. Until she was named I couldn't feel much affection or tenderness for the new doll, she was a stranger to me.

By robbing me of my name and replacing it with his own, my step-dad exercised a degree of power over me which was very deliberate. There was something about his doing so which said to my heart, "You are mine now, you are part of me, I own you." I'd never felt owned by my real father, at least not in the sense that my step-dad owned me. Suddenly I was no longer me; at best I was an object, a possession, something which spoke of territorial rights and power, all ugly words which surely had nothing to do with the simplicity of my childhood needs and yearnings.

I would imagine that for my mother-- who happily enough took on her new hubby's name--the switching of my last name was of little consequence. She seemed anxious to put the past behind her in her compulsion to make a new start in life. Part of that new start meant leaving most of her children behind as liabilities she couldn't afford in this new world of her own making. The other part of starting over meant total submission to her new hubby: her own willing submission and that of the daughter she'd brought along with her because no one quite new what to do with me.

Once named, and therefore loved, I wandered about at loose ends, unsure of my footing in the world, baffled by this turn of circumstances for which there was no explanation. I'd been robbed of something sacred and, though I had no words to express this thievery, I felt keenly its affect on my world. The earthquake which shattered my universe took place when I was torn from my loved ones. Every day I lived with the aftershocks, dazed and confounded by these forces beyond my control.

To strip from someone the very essence of their identity is surely an act of utter cruelty. To do so with my step-dad and mother's careless regard for the repercussions on me is nothing short of criminal. Oh, the many faces of abuse! How permeating its all powerful presence, insinuating itself into forms of cruelty one would never have thought existed until faced with the decimation of a once whole childhood.

These days I go by my father's last name, and have done so for about 10 years. Before that I went through many marriages, automatically giving up my name without a thought. When it finally occurred to me that I could revert back to my given name, I did so with a degree of surprise at my own audacity. But why not? Why not gift myself with that which I was powerless to hold onto during my childhood years?

What's in a name? Everything, which is why so many survivors of abuse change their names after going through a time of healing--after they are well enough to see with clarity that they have the power to take back at least something of what was stolen from them by those who had no business doing so in the first place. 

Comments

[Enola]

Names are important - I am glad you have yours back.

Back when my mother remarried, and my sister & I continued to go by our father's last name, it was unusual. I remember the questions about why my mother's last name was different. I too, had the sense of pride in my last name.

In high school my father abandoned me.I began to despise that name. I felt rejected by him and his name. When I married, I made the conscious decision to drop that name. I kept my middle name and assumed my new married name. In taking the new name, I felt like I was giving up my childhood horror memories and assuming a new identity. I demanded that Social Security and DMV allow me to choose my own name - despite their insistance that I keep my maiden name.

I regret that choice now. I did not realize at the time that my nana's feelings had been hurt. And I realize that in ignoring my bad memories, I was depriving myself of the good too.

[Austin]

You blow me away sometimes. When you said, "One of the first things stripped from a prisoner is his name" I thought, oh how true. When did the mother ever really call me by the name she gave me? She always called me out of that name, stripped me of it and replaced it with names designed to tear down and keep torn down.

Your insight here is clear as always but this entry touches something deep in me. I know the power of a name. I know a rose by any other name is not still a rose.

Funny how I never name my dolls or stuffed animals, not as a child nor with the stuffed animals and rag dolls I have as an adult. As a matter of fact, names are so much about identity and placement that I find it hard to use anyone's name at all. It means they exist and if they exist they can hurt me.

I am so dead set on hiding myself that it becomes important to me to make sure no one else exists to hurt me. When I email someone I have to make a conscious effort to start off by using the person's name and a conscious effort to sign my own. Names mean existence and yes ownership. They show your place in the world. I find the world dangerous and fearful. So what do I put out of my mind first? Names, identities, especially of people I've started feeling a bit close to. That felt so unsafe to say.

You inspire me. Great entry.
Austin

[Enola]

Austin's comment sparks something in me. I too have to make a conscious effort to use names in emails and letters. Figuring out how to sign off throws me - do I say "take care" or "love" or what? My T was surprised at how her question of "do you prefer [whole name] or [shorterned form]?" threw me. I didn't know. I go back and forth. I use the shortened form now. It's the new me.

[marj aka thriver]

I, too, really relate to the "prisoner-stripped-of-a-name" idea. It gives me a really creepy feeling. God, Beauty, I didn't know your step-father did that! I'm so sorry! In my case, my mother seemed to LOVE referring to us as "the twins" or "the girls." She hardly ever called me by my own name, unless it was "Marjorie," which is my full name...which I hate...and which she KNOWS I hate!

I love your new template. It's pretty!