What did you just call me?
A misspelled name, in print. Gasp! I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how what we call each other matters. Whether that's a proper name, a description, a pronoun, a term of endearment, or a not-so-endearing term, it's not really our choice to make.
For example, even though my son’s got two perfectly good first names, he introduces himself with an entirely different one: Dash. For him, that’s exciting. I can’t control that. But why would I want to? I realize I shouldn't identify anyone in any way without asking them first what they might like. These identity politics, in the very broadest sense, are showing up in so many areas of my life.
Names On My Book
Here's a peek at one version of the new cover we're working on for The Ordinary Chaos of Being Human. I'm obsessing over the idea of including all the contributors' names in some artful way. But it is no small feat, even with a talented artist in my corner. And I've been agonizing about whether I should ditch the idea all together because, even though my intention is to feature every contributor in the most democratic way possible, I risk chopping up the names of the people I actually want to honor. See what I mean?
The F!@#$%^ Subtitle
My book is a collection of true stories by writers from predominantly Muslim countries. But I can't put that on the cover. Because it's far too limiting when it comes to the many ways these writers identify themselves. Names and titles, especially with the limited real estate you've got on a book cover, create so many boundaries on how we describe experience. If being Muslim or coming from a Muslim heritage country doesn't define these writers, neither does it define the experiences shared in these stories. What the writers do have in common is the courage to write about deeply personal, universal human moments. And that's broad. Undefinable. Unnamable. These are the things that keep me up at night. Hm.
On a Lighter (Sri Lankan) Note
In this country, how you refer to people is intricate. The many terms of endearment show a kaleidoscope of ways to show respect. For example, my husband recently suggested that we encourage our sons to call each other by their first names, not by the commonly used terms for big brother (ayya) or little brother (maali). It fosters a sense of hierarchy otherwise, he told me. That concern would never have entered my mind.
And it wasn’t long ago that I realized knowing the birthdays of the women in my extended family (mind you, that’s nearly 50 people) was key to determining whether or not I call them big sister (akka) or little sister (nangi). The terms show mutual respect. What's more, in Buddhist tradition, you kneel at the feet of your elders when you say goodbye, even when someone is only one year older than you. So it’s important.
My solution to this identity question, in all of its forms, is simply to stop assuming I know how people would like to be called, and start asking them. After all, that bearded Brazilian guy might in fact prefer to be referred to as the girl from Ipanema. I shouldn't decide that for him. If we can't manage our own names at least, what else have we got?