What’s In A Name

By: Hayden Thompson

Edited by: Stuart Walker, Brandon Cochran, Terry Wilkerson Jr

As I turned into my neighborhood, every hair on my body stood up. My stomach was dropping at record speeds. The ambient music blaring in my car was just turning into white noise as my car began crawling below five mph. My mind was the furthest it ever could be from slowing down, moving from one extreme to the next, allowing me to breathe. The drive to the end of the neighborhood was painfully slow.

I pulled into the driveway, took out the keys, opened the door, and sat there in the cold air. I was shaking, and the rapid thoughts came to a screeching halt, as if the whole world came to look at me, waiting to see how this night would end. Would it be a tearful reconciliation with my family, or will I have to worry about finding a place to sleep for the night?

Slowly I pulled out my phone, and read through my now-muted family group chat.

Me!

Please read.

Confession.pdf

6:37 AM

Mom

We will talk about it when you get home honey.

11:16 AM

Big Sis

We love you bud!

12:45 PM

It’s harrowing just pulling up the family chat. In actuality there was little to be scared of, but the mere act of it, which only had two responses, is enough to put me on edge. Plus the idea of having to talk about it shook me to my core.

Talking has never been my strongpoint. As a kid with ADHD and crippling anxiety, I’ve avoided talking unless forced to. Whenever I begin talking, my mind moves too fast and my words merely can’t keep up, which leads to an ultimately terrible way to come out to a family. I didn’t have the willpower to be physically present in the same room as them, heavens no, so I did what any sane person would do, send the letter to the family group chat before any of them were awake while I hid at my job for a nine hour shift.

Not the best, I know.

Still, the time had come. I put my phone back in my pocket, closed the car door, and marched to the front door of the house I’ve lived in for the last twenty years of my life.

Only to hit my head on a locked door, forced to wait awkwardly for my mom to open it for me. The pressure was overwhelming, my mind was working overtime. While waiting to be let in I couldn’t think of any possible outcome, so I prepared to either dive deeper, or float to the surface and finally breathe again.

___________________________________________________________________

“Just one more question,” my mom had asked the third time in our conversation. I looked up to make what little eye contact I could muster.

“Who is ___?”

I tilted my head in confusion, already lost eye contact. They did read the letter, right, I thought to myself. “Well, ___ is me.” I explained.

“Why do you want to change your name?” My head lowers, eyes obscured by my hair. “You already have a gender neutral name,”

There’s no need to change it.

___________________________________________________________________

I’ve done a lot of thinking since this day, no need no need no need replaying in my mind on a constant loop. I had to ask myself, what does a name mean? What weight does a name carry, is there a reason for changing it? I was lost, constantly waging war in my mind over something as simple as what people call me by. However, after many, many late nights battling my own brain, I’ve come to a conclusion.

To me, a name is everything. A name is the first thing you put forward, a name is your identity, a name is what defines you. It’s not a sign of disrespect to the parents, it’s not simply to defy the norm nor is it just what you do as a trans person, choosing whatever name just because it sounds cool.

To me, my name is superfluous. It is merely a placeholder, a title that I had worn all too long, a weight that causes me to sink further into the abyss. With each and every use of That name, the weight grows ever heavier, and the hurt that runs through my body intensifies. How long, have I carried this name? How much longer must I carry it? When did I notice it was a burden?

To me, my name is like this weight that wraps around my being, constantly stopping me from reaching the surface, only prolonging my stay in this pit of the darkness. Gender neutral or not, that old accursed only serves to remind myself of the painful times, times in which I was alone, times where I cursed myself for not living a “normal” life. Gender neutral or not, the memories associated with that name will never fade, try as I might. There can’t be a me with this name anymore, any memory I try to recall just ends up doing more harm than good, because there’s this voice in my head that won’t stop whispering that’s not you.

That’s not you they’re laughing with, it whispers to me, that’s not the real you. And try as I might, I can’t dispute the voice.

A name is everything. A name is the forefront of one’s identity, it’s what people refer to you as. It’s what allows us to develop memories, for if we were without names, we are nothing more than strangers. Waking up everyday harboring this secret that I locked away deep into the recesses of my heart, trying to tell myself this will be the day, I’m sure of it, only to be bombarded with

“Hey bro”

“That’s a chore for the guys to do”

“It’ll be a guys night out, whatta’ say,”

“You could try being happier ______”

“______, What’s your deal today?”

“Man, grow up.”

I was a stranger to myself at this point. The me whom others referred to me as, and the me that I told myself I was. Who was right, and who was wrong, I asked myself. The restless nights spent buried in my pillow, desperately clawing for a form of answer as to who I was supposed to be , only to realize I was alone.

I was alone only for as long as I harbored both of these names. It was thanks to another sleepless night and a whim that I told one of my friends this secret. They were very sweet about it, and were happy for me for coming out to them. Then they also touched on how stupid I’d been treating it, acting as if this was some sort of “dark secret” I needed to bear, rather then being my life. Then, they finally asked;

“BTW, what is your name?”

“Oh, uh, ___”

“That’s not weird, is it?”

“Nah, think it suits you perfectly.”

A name is so much more than just a title, it’s more than what you call other people. A name is something we carry with us, the second we are brought into this world we are given a name. We carry our memories, our personalities with our names. Our names are associated with our life stories, we carry all our baggage in our name. And that’s what makes it so pivotal for people like me to change our names; to leave this baggage behind. I can barely think of my time as _____ without some feelings of hatred or despair boiling over. Any memory associated with ______ is just me recalling putting on this false front, parading around these two names as if they’re both me.

The chance to discard that name in its entirety is me reaching the surface and taking my first breath of relief after years of drowning. Some may look at it as me running away, but to me, it’s me finally achieving something I’ve wanted to for years, to have an identity. I want to be able to look in the mirror and say, “this is me.” I want my family to say my name and for me to be happy to hear them. I want to be able to be comfortable with myself and not be cloaked in dread every waking second of my life.

So with all due respect, there is absolutely a reason to change my name. And for once, I can say it with full, unbridled confidence.

From, Val Thompson

Val Thompson is an aspiring writer at Spalding University. She writes primarily creative non-fiction pieces and memoirs, though she enjoys just about every genre there is to writing. When she finds herself not stuck behind the screen or battling with her own identity, Val likes to escape with some games or long walks around her quiet neighborhood.