Names

This blog is named after my two tattoos, which are on each side of my waist.

This is an ohmu (pronounced just 'ohm'). It is one of the main characters in one of my favourite childhood movies, "Valley of the Wind" which was later re-released (with MUCH better dubbing) as "Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind." The movie depicts a future suffering from the effects of the nuclear wars that ravaged the land, polluted most of the drinking water and created what is referred to as 'the toxic jungle,' which is where these ohmu live. They are about the size of a double-decker bus.

This is an ancient horse, from the cave painting in Lascaux, France. The horse is depicted (it is believed) as pregnant, not just adorably pudgy with tiny legs. The original painting was crafted by someone's hand around 20,000 years ago.

Maybe it was silly to name my blog after my two tattoo buddies, but I was seriously at a loss. I have had many strange experiences with names in my life. They either matter a lot, or not at all. I vacillate between these two extremes.

For example. I was born to a loving mother and father who decided to name me Kate Marie. Marie was a popular middle name at that time, and many of my friends shared it with me. Kate, on the other hand, is short for Catherine. Now, Catherine is a fine name, and gives rise to all sorts of nick names, one of which is Kate, but that was not my name. My mother was afraid people would shorten it to Kathy--and she HATED the name Kathy. All my father wanted--and still wants--was to call his little girl Katie. So that was my name.

It's strange, looking back. I can't remember a time when I didn't use another name in play. There was literally NO game I played where anyone referred to me as Kate. Or Katie. I didn't dislike the name, I just didn't identify with it. This is a strange thing to explain to anyone who hasn't experienced it, so I won't try.

But whatever. When I had my own time to spend, I could choose my name. I usually hovered around Diana, because of the goddess. And the princess--my mother is English.

Then I was 13 I started high school, and, after getting over my brief touch of culture shock, was building my own identity in the way most 13 year olds do. At the time my friends and I enjoyed a cartoon called Animaniacs. The humour was very Marx Brothers, and also stupid, and full of movie references which I always love. One of my friends told me she was going to start calling me Slappy, after the cartoon squirrel in the show. I liked the character Slappy--she'd seen it all, and was still feisty enough at a ripe old age to give 'em what was comin' to 'em. Eh, somebody shoot me.

So I was Slappy. I still am, in fact. It's the one name I've identified with. It was like coming home. It also really caught on within my circle of friends. There were many who didn't know my 'real' name for quite some time. My family still called me Kate. I'm not sure why.

Skip forward into college, adulthood. I tell people my name is Kate. They call me Katie. I tell them, no, just Kate. They get offended and say, Fine, with a huff.

This may have been part of a broader picture of the people in my area being more easily offended than the rest of the planet, but this was difficult to make light of at the time. When people read my name, they read, 'Katie.' And that's also what they heard. And that's what they kept calling me. And it rankled, for some reason.

I think back now and it seems strange to split hairs like this, but I never even felt like KATE was my proper name, so to have it constantly changed to the diminutive felt patronizing. And, oh god, do I hate to be patronized! hee hee! Perhaps I had picked up the 'easily offended' vibe from my surroundings.

When I joined a band in my 20s, the music scene was the first time I remember no one batting a fucking eyelash at my name. Oh, hey Slappy, how's it going? It was wonderful. 

When I began to work at a coffee shop with a friend of mine who knew me as Slappy, all my coworkers had to get used to this silly name. But it was old hat at that point:
"Hi, I'm Slappy."
"Really? I . . . don't know if I can call you that."
"It's cool if you don't, but after this shift I promise it'll make more sense."

And by the end of the shift, usually between bouts of laughter, my coworkers accepted the name and didn't think twice about it again.

Now, I know my limits. I know that, professionally, an office assistant or a lab technician (in the off chance I land a job like that, which I never have, to date) can't very well be seen under such a silly moniker. Offices, after all, are meant to suck all creativity and individuality out of a person. And it was still rankling me that the older I got, the MORE people insisted on trying to call me Katie. So I legally changed my name.

When I got divorced, I didn't want to take my maiden name back for a few reasons--like, for example, not being a maiden. So I decided to do a fell-swoop name change and just pick a whole new one. It felt like choosing my own destiny. It felt like trying to match a name to a character already mostly written.

I chose my first name easily--my mother's mother's first name was Jessamine. So that was a given. I needed to have Kate still represented in the name because my family refuses to call me anything else. It's like they're stuck in 1989 and can't get out. So I chose for a middle name, Hekate, the goddess of the crossroads. This made the first two initials match my mother's. For my last name, I picked Thursday. The day I was born.

Maybe names aren't important. Maybe if Romeo had been named Darren everyone would go around calling amorous men 'Darrens.' I don't know. What I do know is that my name has been a strange snarl of confusion for most of my life, and now it isn't.

"Jess, not Jesse" is probably going to get old, though.