What's in a name

Hey buddy, I’ve been thinking a lot about names. When we brought you home, you hadn’t even made it into the apartment yet when your dad looked at you, declared that you had a droopy face à la Robert Deniro and the rest was history.

It was easy.

My name was meant to be Jasmine. Which now that I’ve lived nearly 32 years with a different name, seems quite silly. I obviously wasn’t a Jasmine, because I am not currently a Jasmine. But my mom knew when she looked at me for the first time that Jasmine just wouldn’t do, and in fact I was to be Arit Ruler of Worlds. Or just Arit, I suppose. A name is valuable, it’s important. It can be your brand (a brand is like the way people see you marketed to the world, so for example part of your brand would be “humps for no reason and has super soft fur”), it can be your email address, it can sit on political slogan signs, it can determine whether or not you get a call back for a job. It’s kind of a thing that defines you. And you don’t get to pick it. A name is almost always chosen for you.

If you look at marginalized groups of people, you can see that taking back their own name, making a choice about their name, becomes a source of reclaiming power and identity after living on someone else’s terms. You see this with black people in America rejecting the names given to their family by a slave master generations ago, you even see this with transgender people when they choose a name to align them with their true gender. It’s a step, it’s what you want to be called. It’s what you hear ringing in your brain when someone is trying to get your attention, and if what is pinging in your brain is a reminder of some past trauma, or of a you that’s not really you, then that has got to be both maddening and hurtful.

What you’re called has an impact on your life. And forget first names, last names come with even less choice. You just get whatever your dad had passed down. Even though dogs don’t legally have last names, you were Deniro Cummings. I took you to the vet once and changed your last name to mine. Your dad was mad. I thought it was funny.

My name has brought me all kinds of interesting moments in life as a result of people being wholly unable to pronounce it. I’m not alone in this, as the child of an immigrant this is a common problem. But my first name isn’t actually that hard. It has four letters. It follows the typical consonant to vowel breakdown and order (vowel, consonant, vowel consonant), and there are really only two, maybe three ways to say it. But Americans named Katie and Jackson and Paul see it and fumble immediately.

Art. Arti. Rita. Erin. Eric. Erica. Errrrrit. I give up, do you have a middle name. Yes, I do, and it’s spelled weird, too.

My last name causes even more chaos in their sweet little brains. It starts with two consonants that have no business being together unless they’re at the end of a word. Nsemo. Those five letters trick people, fill their mouths with marbles, and out comes some of the most cringeworthy noise.

People think the ‘N’ is silent. Why? Because there are so many silent ‘n’s in the English language?

People think it’s a long ‘e’. This one makes sense to me, but it’s a short ‘e’.

People think the ‘s’ is silent. Again, when is this a thing in their actual language?

Nemo. Nasaymo. Nezmo. Nesemeo Semo. Nizimo. And that just gets you up to second grade. No one just called me by my last name in high school sports. My brother, as a Marine, was referred to as Nemo. He just let that go, though. Because Marines have guns.

Your name isn’t hard. Deniro. Like Robert. That’s how I’d introduce you to people. But still, some people would call you Dinero, like money. In Spanish. I didn’t mind that so much because you did cost a lot to take care of; that doggy daycare wasn’t cheap.

The beautiful thing about having a name that fills people with fear and confusion upon looking at it is that your expectations are low, and you get to be absolutely dazzled when someone gets it right the first time. It’s truly a magical moment.

Then there are the other times, the extremely rare occasions, where not only does someone get it right, but they know it. They see it for what it is. I have a friend in London who is from South Sudan and when I was sharing my contact details with him he asked for my last name. I just spelled it out to him so he could put it in his phone, (you know ‘n’ as in Nancy, ‘s’ as in Sam, etc), and when he looked at it, he said, “Ah! Nsemo! That’s a strong name,” and smiled. It was a moment of actual and sincere appreciation. I think the conclusion I just came to is that I need to spend more time with people from the continent.

My name is a part of me, and when I was young I was determined to change it the second I turned 18, but 18 came and went and I kept this beautiful beast of a name. A name that originates from my father’s home country (Nigeria). A name who’s origin I’m only slightly clear on. But it’s mine. It’s my brand. And oddly, you never knew my name. I was just a human person who squished your face, snuggled you, fed you, and paid for your ridiculous(ly amazing) daycare. But I’m also Arit Nsemo. Nice to meet you.