What's In A Name?
Being a lover of Shakespeare, I must confess that that phrase always brings up the rest of the speech for me... yep, the whole “Wherefore art thou Romeo?” routine. Romeo and Juliet is far from my favorite Shakespearean opus - I’m more of a Julius Caesar and Macbeth type, and I admit to identifying with poor indecisive Hamlet more than a little - but I’ve always rather liked that particular bit of monologue about the names.
For you non-Shakespearians, “wherefore” actually means “why.” In other words, Juliet is bemoaning the fact that it’s merely Romeo’s name - his family affiliation with the Montagues - that keeps them apart. (Think Hatfields and McCoys.) Why can‘t he simply change it, be someone else? “Deny thy father and refuse thy name,” she begs - and then offers to renounce her own instead (“... or if thou wilt not, then be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet”).
Of course, if it were really that simple, all of the rather complicated mess that follows, wouldn’t - presumably a gain for young love, if also a loss for literature.
Personally, I’ve been wrestling with names for a long time. As far back as the first grade, I remember feeling awkward about my given name, like it was meant for someone else. In college for a while I went by my first and middle initials only (to the pooh-poohing of one of my mentor profs, who assumed it was a ploy to conceal my sex and gain male privilege in the academic world I was aiming to enter). For the last half-decade now I’ve been going by a shortened version, a gender-neutral nickname; in fact, most of my current friends and acquaintances have never actually heard my “real” name. When a family member greets me by the full version, it feels very strange, like they’ve mistaken me for someone else. (Maybe that other first-grader who was meant to have it?)
I have a strong tendency to think about and understand the world via metaphor, and so I’ve always been drawn to the idea of symbolic names, particularly as expressed in the modern Pagan tradition of self-chosen names. It simply makes sense to me that a name should be somehow indicative of the person wearing it, that it’s not just a set of random sounds to identify one human from another. A name should say something about us - who we are, where we’ve been, who we are deciding to become.
“Phoenix” is a name I’ve used for some years now, albeit not very publicly. It’s been a more-or-less private name, one that I’ve used at fire circles and in other intentional spaces where it felt important to try and be myself, rather than the person others expected me to be. It was born of two significant aspects of my life and personality: firstly, that Fire has always been the Element (out of the classical Four Elements) that I am really strongly drawn to, in part because of its association with active intention and creative transformation; and secondly that, several times in my life so far, I have had to rise from my own ashes, from fires of the ego that showed me, in no uncertain terms, who I was not.
Recently I’ve been owning that name much more openly, experimenting with how and where it fits... and what else might fit with it.
Transpersons have a unique opportunity - as well as a unique need - to explore this aspect of self. Some have always known exactly what name they would choose, if and when they dare to really be themselves. Others play with alternate versions of their given names, ask their parents what they would have been called had they been born the opposite sex, even pore through baby name books to find something that feels right. (This is definitely a “born-again" experience!) Many go through several stages of alternative names before they settle in with one that really fits and make it official.
This is often an uncomfortable process for that person’s circle of family and friends. Things feel unstable. What is all this childish messing around with names?
Well, I have to admit, from the inside... this is one of the fun parts. And hey, it’s only fair that, for all of the hard and complicated and intense aspects of this path, there should also be some parts that are playful, that invoke imagination and the freedom of a child’s visionary games.
And well they should, because - I suspect - the inner child will be rather badly needed in this process, a necessary and integral actor in the coming tale. Transition has often been compared to a second adolescence, not merely because of its physical effects, but also, I think, because of what it demands from the child-soul... abilities that the adult self cannot so easily supply. Flexibility, for one; openness, malleability, the power to stretch and bend without breaking. The ability to dream in new directions, to see oneself in new roles and envision what the shape of them might be. The willingness to grow not only by gaining, but also by letting go - leaving behind old assumptions, expectations, and self-images that no longer fit.
I’ve been joking that I turned fourteen this past birthday - a fine conceit born out of my then-girlfriend’s teasing comment about my refusing to shave: “It’s like kissing a fourteen-year-old boy!” My immediate response was, “WAY cool - I never got to be a fourteen-year-old boy, it’s my turn!”
It’s a joke - and yet it’s also true. In some ways, I get to grow up all over again. And I hope I can do it with the clear-sightedness of a child, recognizing what’s really important and what’s just window-dressing.
Juliet was supposed to be about fourteen in the play, I think. She had that clarity, to see what was really real, what lay behind and beyond names, though the adult world didn’t understand.
And so I ask my adult community to bear with me while I figure out how best to express who I am and who I might become. Which will involve, among other things, some playing with names.
I’m no Romeo, but I may in fact be a Phoenix... and a few other thing besides.
For you non-Shakespearians, “wherefore” actually means “why.” In other words, Juliet is bemoaning the fact that it’s merely Romeo’s name - his family affiliation with the Montagues - that keeps them apart. (Think Hatfields and McCoys.) Why can‘t he simply change it, be someone else? “Deny thy father and refuse thy name,” she begs - and then offers to renounce her own instead (“... or if thou wilt not, then be but sworn my love, and I’ll no longer be a Capulet”).
Of course, if it were really that simple, all of the rather complicated mess that follows, wouldn’t - presumably a gain for young love, if also a loss for literature.
Personally, I’ve been wrestling with names for a long time. As far back as the first grade, I remember feeling awkward about my given name, like it was meant for someone else. In college for a while I went by my first and middle initials only (to the pooh-poohing of one of my mentor profs, who assumed it was a ploy to conceal my sex and gain male privilege in the academic world I was aiming to enter). For the last half-decade now I’ve been going by a shortened version, a gender-neutral nickname; in fact, most of my current friends and acquaintances have never actually heard my “real” name. When a family member greets me by the full version, it feels very strange, like they’ve mistaken me for someone else. (Maybe that other first-grader who was meant to have it?)
I have a strong tendency to think about and understand the world via metaphor, and so I’ve always been drawn to the idea of symbolic names, particularly as expressed in the modern Pagan tradition of self-chosen names. It simply makes sense to me that a name should be somehow indicative of the person wearing it, that it’s not just a set of random sounds to identify one human from another. A name should say something about us - who we are, where we’ve been, who we are deciding to become.
“Phoenix” is a name I’ve used for some years now, albeit not very publicly. It’s been a more-or-less private name, one that I’ve used at fire circles and in other intentional spaces where it felt important to try and be myself, rather than the person others expected me to be. It was born of two significant aspects of my life and personality: firstly, that Fire has always been the Element (out of the classical Four Elements) that I am really strongly drawn to, in part because of its association with active intention and creative transformation; and secondly that, several times in my life so far, I have had to rise from my own ashes, from fires of the ego that showed me, in no uncertain terms, who I was not.
Recently I’ve been owning that name much more openly, experimenting with how and where it fits... and what else might fit with it.
Transpersons have a unique opportunity - as well as a unique need - to explore this aspect of self. Some have always known exactly what name they would choose, if and when they dare to really be themselves. Others play with alternate versions of their given names, ask their parents what they would have been called had they been born the opposite sex, even pore through baby name books to find something that feels right. (This is definitely a “born-again" experience!) Many go through several stages of alternative names before they settle in with one that really fits and make it official.
This is often an uncomfortable process for that person’s circle of family and friends. Things feel unstable. What is all this childish messing around with names?
Well, I have to admit, from the inside... this is one of the fun parts. And hey, it’s only fair that, for all of the hard and complicated and intense aspects of this path, there should also be some parts that are playful, that invoke imagination and the freedom of a child’s visionary games.
And well they should, because - I suspect - the inner child will be rather badly needed in this process, a necessary and integral actor in the coming tale. Transition has often been compared to a second adolescence, not merely because of its physical effects, but also, I think, because of what it demands from the child-soul... abilities that the adult self cannot so easily supply. Flexibility, for one; openness, malleability, the power to stretch and bend without breaking. The ability to dream in new directions, to see oneself in new roles and envision what the shape of them might be. The willingness to grow not only by gaining, but also by letting go - leaving behind old assumptions, expectations, and self-images that no longer fit.
I’ve been joking that I turned fourteen this past birthday - a fine conceit born out of my then-girlfriend’s teasing comment about my refusing to shave: “It’s like kissing a fourteen-year-old boy!” My immediate response was, “WAY cool - I never got to be a fourteen-year-old boy, it’s my turn!”
It’s a joke - and yet it’s also true. In some ways, I get to grow up all over again. And I hope I can do it with the clear-sightedness of a child, recognizing what’s really important and what’s just window-dressing.
Juliet was supposed to be about fourteen in the play, I think. She had that clarity, to see what was really real, what lay behind and beyond names, though the adult world didn’t understand.
And so I ask my adult community to bear with me while I figure out how best to express who I am and who I might become. Which will involve, among other things, some playing with names.
I’m no Romeo, but I may in fact be a Phoenix... and a few other thing besides.
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