Poetry Friday: The Name of the Rose

XXVII
I’m nobody! Who are you?

Are you nobody, too?

Then there ’s a pair of us—don’t tell!

They ’d banish us, you know.


How dreary to be somebody!

How public, like a frog

To tell your name the livelong day

To an admiring bog!

-- The Belle of Amherst

We've had a ridiculous amount of fun this week with names -- pen names, Hobbit names (shout out to Pansy Danderfluff, yo!), blues names, and other silliness. Thinking about how eagerly we entered into this got me thinking about names in general.

When I was small, my sisters played 'Jean and Patsy (!)', which was their version of playing House (why didn't we ever play 'Home?' Anyway.). I loved the names they used, but struggled to find a name of my own, and without a name, I was told I couldn't play. (Ah, the gullibility of childhood. Now I know I would never be allowed to play ANYWAY, on account of being four years younger than "Jean," Queen Bee and Rulemaker, but I lived in hope back then, didn't I? *sigh*) 'Jean and Patsy' were the COOLEST NAMES EVER (!!!), and they were TAKEN, alas. So, I dubbed myself Stephanie -- who always ended up the "babysitter" of the dolls, i.e., the one left holding them when Queen Bee decided she and my other sister would be playing something else. I changed my name multiple times in the game, but I could never change my low status. Eventually, I began to imagine stories for Stephanie that were better than anything Jean and Patsy ever did. In time, my imagination trumped my feeling of being left out.

Emily Dickinson hits the nail on the head when she says, "I'm nobody, who are you?"
After learning to deal with not being asked to play, writers and introverts sometimes forget how to enter into the game. Privacy is a privilege, and being Somebody is a dreary prospect, as is being obliged to keep croaking one's status and importance to an 'admiring bog.' How much a luxury it is to sink into namelessness. What's in a name, after all? If you can put an invisible identity in front of your real name, isn't it still you, by any other name, and still just as sweet?

When I was a kid, I thought it hilarious that I had an uncle named 'Bookie.' No, not bookie, like someone who takes bets, Boo-key. My uncle's real name is Robin, but does anyone call him that? Nope. That regrettable name was sculpted by the fingers of admiring relatives pinching his toddler cheeks, poor man.

Baby names, family names, names you only answer to when your mother calls you by them -- those are the insulations -- the mac and wellies, to extend the metaphor -- that though you may whine about having to wear them, protect you from the cold and wet of the bog. They can be magic talismans to take with you into the real world.

The poet Traci Dant has the right of it in 'Twice Named.'

A Twice Named Family


I come

from a family


that twice names



its own.

One name

for the world.



One name

for home.

Lydi, Joely, Door,



Bud, Bobby, Bea,

Puddin, Cluster, Lindy,

Money, Duddy, Vess.



Yes,

we are

a two-named family

This poem is printed in its entirety at The Writer's Almanac. Click through (will open in a new window) and scroll down to Thursday to read the rest.

Maybe you didn't have a nickname given to you in love (most of mine were hideous and derisive - all part of being the little sister of The Queen Bee and Rulemaker), but you can still have an alter ego who animates your hidden side, and has adventures of their own (Vivianna Isabella Tentadore lives!!).

By any other name, you will still be who you really are.

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Poetry Friday is at Big A, little a, where the ball is rolling down the long aisle toward graduation -- minus a few late papers and that sinking feeling that not everybody is graduating and moving on! More poetry of all kinds awaits you. Dive in!