Midnight Musings: What's in a Name?

It's almost 1AM. I'm reading a Murakami short story about stealing people's names and how you can shift someone's soul by appropriating their title. I've always wondered about the alchemy of names b/c the idea of name-stealing is so culturally universal. A name is a spell. It's a series of sounds that's attached to a visual image that's attached to an emotion. And the combination of sound/image/emotion puts a spell over a room. In certain secret societies, when you are initiated you are given a secret name. it's a way of having a special spell over yourself. When I did a Native American sweat lodge in Albuquerque I was given a name. I was told to keep it, don't pass it around, it's written on your heart and can cast a spell. You don't want to give people that power. Later on, I took Buddhist vows and I was also given a secret name...a name only known to me and the giver. I will go to my grave with this name b/c it's my spell that has certain images and emotions attached to it that are woven into my mind when I say it in the mirror or think about it.

If you think names don't conjure and incant, try naming your next child 'Adolf' and see how that child is treated in life. See what kind of energy Little Adolf attracts and how it can determine his behavior and outlook. Or name a little boy 'Sue.' Or be called the n-word...or try to take back the n-word by having people denigrated by it, re-fashion it as a sound that exclusively connects some. 

I've been called the 'n' word by white and black people for different reasons. Depending upon the tone and intention of the user, it shifts the spell from endearing to outrageous to murderous to joking. Same name... different spell. The last time I was called the n' word by a white-identifying person was also in Albuquerque. I've shared this story before but I keep returning to it because I found it so fascinating. I revisit this again and again, learning more each time. 

It was 2007. I was walking back from University of New Mexico library and passing by a college bar. Two white guys came out and started following me. I saw them as I crossed the street. They had a gleam in their eye...alcohol? Mischief? Malice? I didn't want to find out. Before I turned away from them to continue on my path, I could see that they had their hands in their pockets. I also didn't want to find out about what was in their pockets. 

One guy asked if I had a lighter...perhaps to get me to stop or slow down. I said 'sorry, I don't' and continued walking. They continued to follow me. As long as they didn't have a gun, I thought I could handle whatever happened. But I was practicing my ABC's of street confrontation: avoid, barricade, confront (as a last resort). I was definitely on the 'A' part as I picked up my pace. The other guy spat the words at me... 'stupid n' word.' I guess I was supposed to stop, turn and face them, erupt into rage. But it felt like a trap...plus that wasn't my name. I was aware that they thought it was my name and that they could conjure me into a mood, but my mom had given me a name, Native American chief had given me a name, Buddhist had given me a name. And these guys did not know any of my names. They were trying to use the historic name to get me to react in a way they wanted me to do. I just said my real names under my breath and it seemed to open up more distance between us...like a spell of flight. 

They continued to walk with me down the street...eyes gleaming, waiting. I moved on to B: barricade or put something between me and them. I switched the aim of my walk home when I saw a bright day-glow laundromat. I headed toward that light and they seemed confused. I casually strolled through the parking lot and they stopped. There were now other people. They stood on the border between the lot and the street, and then they turned back. I casually passed through the laundromat, made sure I wasn't being followed, and continued home. The second I got to my residence, I put my bags down and went to the meditation cushion. I got quiet and searched inside...my names were still there. 

There's no neat summation to this story. That's why it's a musing. But thinking about the power of names. Maybe we should all have our own secret names we keep and only share with the person we marry or our most trusted allies. Maybe we would have more control than the historic names. Maybe if it was just one of those guys instead of two, I would have stopped. Maybe if they didn't have their hands in their pocket, I would have called them a name. Maybe my mind was already subtly shifted by the names I had been given by my mom, a chief, and a nun...and I had control of my heart.