361/365 My Name

They call me Dearbhla
They call me Asumpta
They call me Atracta
They call me Maeve
That's not my name, that's not my name
That's not my my my my my name
(Up and Over It "Chav Ballerina")

It's Maeve's favorite song. It's about being an Irish dancer and being anonymous in your wig and makeup and stiff dress and nobody knows who you are--so they call you a variety of Irish girl first names. Maeve loves it, of course, because it says "they call me Maeve/that's not my name." She thinks it's hilarious.

She was singing it as she got out of the car today to go to church. And then the homily was about names. About the importance of knowing someone's name. About how, once you know a person's name, it is the beginning of a relationship. That before that point, a person is whatever you assume she is--whatever ethnic group or minority culture or religion, but once you learn her name, that starts to fall away.

This is, of course, completely true and I have nothing to add. I think about the mom at my girls' school, Muslim, wearing her hijab, and how at first I didn't know how to be with her. Then I realized she was just like me, only not like me. And then it was fine. She likes the Onion and Red Dwarf and thinks kid music programs at school are ridiculous. Her husband is a Croatian, a convert (I believe) and she converted, too. Her first name is Jenny for goodness sake. So I guess I did have something to add.

My first name is Sarah. I keep it hidden because I was never called Sarah growing up. I even dropped it when I got married, but I picked it back up. Tradition or something. I was named for my great-aunt, who died this past year at 93. The name I go by is Bridgett, which is a variable spelling of a name with many spellings. My parents were going for an Irish-American theme there (I think about the rap group House of Pain all the time when I say these names): Bridgett, Ian, Bevin, and Colleen. Besides Bevin, I'm not sure if any of those names are even used in Ireland anymore (and I doubt Ian ever was). Bridgett, though, however you spell it, was. And in fact, one of my diaspora immigrant ancestors is a Bridget. Or Bridgit. Or Bridgett. She was illiterate: what did she know? And she married an Edward (Mike's first name as well), becoming the first Bridget Blake in my line. I wasn't technically named for her, since my parents didn't even know she existed, but I like to make that happen in my head anyway. She was born about 1838 and was here by 1855. She is a puzzle.

After that, my maiden name is Blake, a name I would have loved to have used for a child's first name but both my sisters have laid claim to it. If and when they ever have children. Blake is Irish, or maybe English, although Edward Blake was from Galway. He committed suicide in East St. Louis after gunning a man down in his bar. I yearn to know more.

I gave up Blake, although it's still part of my name, for Mike's name: Wissinger. There's not a day that goes by that I don't regret this move. I already have to spell my first name. Now I get to spell this one, too. Every time. And, with the way it's pronounced in Mike's family (WESS-singer with singer like the sewing machine), I have a choice: people can spell it or pronounce it. Legally mine, but not mine?

I mentioned this on some blog a few years back, but I have a set of initials that follow my name that are essentially meaningless except in the right context. Like my dad who could technically sign his name with RN at the end, but why would he, since he's been an accountant since the 80s? I am a Benedictine oblate, which means that if I ever decided to, say, write from that perspective for publication, I could sign my name Bridgett, OblSB. I do sign my church banners that way, but otherwise it simply doesn't matter to anyone else. But I like having it there as a reminder.

That's my name.