Notes on names
journal entry #1
There’s a typhoon this week with my name on it. It reminds me of that one poem. A line of it goes, “And when I leave, you will finally understand why storms are named after people.”
I’ve met typhoon-like people, and I don’t think I’m one of them. I actually think I’m more of a cloudy day kind of person—neither brave enough to rage like a storm nor warm enough to be pure sunshine.
Anyhow, I hope the typhoon leaves soon. I wish I could cite a more empathetic reason, but really, it’s because I’ve got somewhere to be this week, and I don’t want the weather to ruin my plans.
That said, I know better than to expect anything. A typhoon’s gonna do what it’s gotta do. Much like people.
Maybe because my name is on the news (again, because of the typhoon and not because I’ve personally done something newsworthy), I’ve received two messages from people I haven’t heard from in a while.
One was explicit: “Hey! The typhoon is named after you.”
The other, less so: “This is so random, but I just thought of you. I hope you’re well.”
The second one was quite surprising because I haven’t heard from this person in about six or seven years. We also weren’t particularly friends. We were coworkers for a year or two, and while we interacted fine enough back then, we kind of ran in different circles. The only information I know about him is that he has a PlayStation, likes basketball and sneakers, has cool tattoos, and that he smokes.
I find it so interesting that other people randomly remember me. That I’m in their minds for maybe a second or two. It’s like the ultimate proof of existence. I wonder what they think about—what information pops up. Do they see a version of me from the past? If so, I can’t decide if that’s heartwarming or horrifying. Maybe he doesn’t even smoke anymore, and that’s just the version in my head I’ve bound him to.
Most importantly, it's impressive that he reached out to tell me. It’s one thing to remember someone, but actually letting them know you are thinking about them is another. I wish I were more of that kind of person, but unfortunately, I’m not.
In my reply, I shared that I’m doing well and that I hope he is, too.
Another detail I found interesting from that random exchange is that he actually started his message using my full first name. The only reason this is noteworthy is because, since high school, I’ve been going by my nickname—which is literally just a shortened version of my already-short name.
In fact, I make it a point to subtly influence acquaintances to use my nickname because that’s part of how I like to categorize the people in my life. My nickname is what I use in social media and in email signatures, so people usually just stick to calling me that too—even past bosses. For the most part, the only ones who call me by my full first name are family, those I’ve known since childhood, and lovers. And I prefer it that way. These are the only people I let see me fully and, therefore, are allowed to use my real name… or some weird belief like that.
Hearing my actual name from people I’m not close to is quite jarring, unless that person is a complete stranger reading my name off a document.
Speaking of the surprising intimacy that comes from hearing your name roll off another person’s tongue, I really like people with two first names. I guess, in the West, what I’m referring to is called a middle name. But that term refers to something else where I’m from, so I’m just going to describe it as a “second first name,” which I know is an oxymoron, but whatever.
You know… like, Ted Evelyn Mosby.
Anyway, as I was saying, I like people with two first names, and I especially love it when I get to use both. Obviously, you wouldn’t do that to someone you’re not close to (again, unless you’re a stranger reading off a document), so it’s somewhat a sign of affection. Plus, I feel like it perfectly encapsulates how I see them—as someone who is just… more. Greater. Better. More than how they might feel about themselves. Past the lines of their bodies, etcetera etcetera.
On a tangent, as I’m writing this, I’m reading Cleopatra and Frankenstein by Coco Mellors. I sneaked a peek at the reviews, and it seems like a lot of people didn’t like this debut novel, but I’m loving it so far.
The main protagonists, Cleo and Frank, are just that… Cleo and Frank. But when they first met, they immediately saw each other (and themselves) as more (or less) than that:
“What’s your name?”
“Cleo,” said Cleo.
He nodded. “Appropriate.”
“How so?”
“Cleopatra, the original undoer of men.”
“But I am just Cleo. What’s your name?”
“Frank,” said Frank.
“Short for?”
“Short for nothing. What on earth would Frank be short for?”
“I don’t know,” Cleo smiled. “Frankfurter, frankincense, Frankenstein….”
“Frankenstein sounds about right. Creator of monsters.”
In fact, in tender moments, they would refer to each other as Cleopatra and Frankenstein, and that just makes me want to cry. I’m a sucker for the use of names as literary vehicles, as you can see.
I’m still halfway through the book, but it’s already making me sad, so I’m guessing by the end of it, my heart is going to be completely broken.
How exciting.
On another tangent, I am reminded of a conversation I had with one of my best friends. Our friend group was about to spend a few days out of town, at the beach, so we were going back and forth with the planning:
“Remind me to bring my clear quartz. It’s supposed to be a full moon, so I’m going to charge it in the ocean,” I texted him.
“What the fuck did I just read? Am I having a stroke?” he replied.
And so, I explained to him that, according to experts, I’m supposed to be “charging” this one crystal that I own (which I bought from an old lady manning a place called The Tower of Love for, if I remember correctly, fifteen lari) and that dipping it in the ocean is one way of doing so.
I know talking about this is going to frustrate him in an amusing way because he’s very logical and only subscribes to things that make sense. Whereas, I go out of my way to infuse my life with rituals that don’t make any sense.
“I don’t understand how people can believe in that,” he said. “It’s all made up.”
“Your name is made up, and yet you still answer to it,” I texted back. “It’s almost as if to find something to identify with, even if it’s intangible, is to be human.”
I wish I could tell you he rolled his eyes at this because that was my goal and would make a funnier story. But he actually pondered what I said for quite a while.
Lastly, on this recurring theme of “names” in my life lately, I’ve been listening to Scott Street by Phoebe Bridgers on repeat.
Obviously, many people like this song, so I don’t have to convince anyone how good it is. But I do want to note that I consider it a masterclass in storytelling. We learn so much from the conversation happening in the lyrics between the two people: who they were in the past and present—together and individually.
One particular lyric that I feel doesn’t get as much hype as it should is this one:
I asked you, “How is playing drums?”
You said, “It’s too much shit to carry.”
The singer wouldn’t have asked the other person about drums if that weren’t a huge part of how they knew them. Plus, the imagery that drums and bands evoke revolves around rock and roll and a way of living that is full of passion, energy, and rebelliousness. Maybe when they met, the other person was living that kind of life. Perhaps that’s even why it didn’t work out and they had to drift apart from each other.
But now that person says, “It’s too much shit to carry,” which signals to us that they’re no longer in that same place. Or, if they were, they see it differently now.
Anyhoo, I wonder if some people truly do feel ashamed when they hear my name, as the lyrics go. The same way an imaginary knife twists in my stomach when I hear theirs.
It's so refreshing to read this! Growing up I had a really weird relationship with my name (I was always alienated by myself and others cuz my name is quite uncommon in the region I grew up) so I ended up hating it for the longest time. I'm now trying to reconnect with it! But beautifully written post, really enjoyed reading it <3
I use different versions of my name to remember how, where, or which life stage I know them from. And yes, it's jarring to hear or see my actual legal name used by people other than biological family or those in government agencies 🤭