What’s in A Name?

Dear World,

Hello! I am firmly ensconced in St. Louis. And by that, I mean I am eating a scone at a Saint Louis Bread Co., the artist nationally known as Panera. I’m living with my dad (hooray for dads!) and we are moving to a condo next to Forest Park in a few days, which should allow me to get my fill of free music and art and greenery. Side note: I’ve been extremely lucky in that I’ve lived near a green space in every city I’ve inhabited so far, from Jamaica Pond in Boston to Prospect Park in Brooklyn. I am ruined for city life, or maybe it’s just my Indiana peeking through.

Some necessary updates and blog housekeeping, since I moved down here relatively recently and quickly without a lot of people knowing why. I applied to the Brown School of Social Work at Washington University for the Fall 2018 semester pretty last-minute – I toured campus when I was visiting my dad in late April – and I got in! I found out while I was sitting in a Starbucks, already jittery from my iced coffee, and I immediately told the guy on Tinder who had just asked me, “But what if u don’t get in lol.” Already displaying the character traits of a true change-maker in society.

In the meantime, before classes start at the end of August, I’ll be spending June working at a summer camp called Kids for Kritters, which is run through the Humane Society of Missouri. Our campers are foster kids who are interested in careers with animals, and we’ll be taking part in activities like training dogs to sit, socializing kittens, and rubbing sunscreen on pigs (to prevent #bacon). I am super excited for this opportunity because our first day of training involved holding the aforementioned kittens and a hairless rat named Furdinand. Furdinand left a few natural gifts in my arms, but the experience was net positive. I’m also looking forward to shifting back to vegetarianism, because I don’t think I can work closely with animals and continue eating them on a semi-regular basis. I’m announcing this via blog post so friends can yell me down if they spot me with BBQ meat caught between my teeth (Haley, why did you recommend Pappy’s Smokehouse!?) or otherwise engaged in carnivorous delights.

Life updates aside, I wanted to continue your regular unasked-for Sarah programming of Things I’ve Been Thinking About. Namely, names. This came up as I was reading through Wash U’s registration packet, and I noted their policy that students can change their preferred name in the system without pursuing a legal name change. The document states, “Reasons for using preferred names may include students known by names different from their legal names, transgender or gender nonconforming students, or international students or other students who wish to adopt an English language name.” You go, Wash U! I would expect or hope that this practice is commonplace at colleges and universities across the country, but still, there had to be a time when this language was not included, and when some people were reminded, every time their own school communicated with them, of a name they may not have identified with, and one that may have reminded them of a past that was painful or from which they wanted to distance themselves.

This takes place regularly in society, too. People have to deal with their names on a daily basis, and the fundamental act of identifying themselves can draw unwanted guff from strangers who may judge them for not living up to expectations for their name. At Starbucks, I am super duper easy to write on a cup, and baristas/people in general never question my gender identity or expression on the basis of the name I give them. My name is as middle-of-the-lane white cis female as it gets, and in acknowledging this privilege, I feel compelled to laud the people who have had the courage to rewrite their original names to reflect their true identities. I am reminded of John Proctor in The Crucible, proclaiming, “Because it is my name!” as (spoiler alert!) he goes proudly to his death. A name is a calling card, a constant companion, as natural as breath. To have someone tell you, “But that’s a boy’s name,” or call you by the wrong pronouns must feel, by extension, like a negation of self.

With this in mind, I’m going to attempt the following: listen harder, and with softer ears. Be open to new names and sounds, and delight in those who break and shake the mold. As I realized recently, a certain dating app has space for people to enter “non-conforming” and “non-binary” as their gender. And if Tinder can do it, so can America.