What's in Your Name?
journaling on self-representation
This week’s journaling prompt:
Write about your name and the meaning it holds for you.
Origins: Where does your name come from? Who chose it, and why? Is there a family connection, a cultural or historical significance, or some other story within it?
Relationship to Your Name: Do you feel connected to the meaning behind your name, or does it feel separate from your sense of self? How have your feelings about your name evolved over time? Do you love it, tolerate it, or wish it were different?
Beyond the Given Name: Have you ever changed your name, shortened it, or experimented with other names? If so, what was the motivation? How did it shape the way you saw yourself?
Here’s my take on Elisabeth.
I have long loved my name.
Nine letters were a wealth of refrigerator magnets. I spelled a bold rainbow on the blank enamel.
Four syllables!
So long that my father, bellowing up the stairs, paused midway to inhale:
“E-lis.”
“Abeth!”
You couldn’t hear the S, though.
It sounded like the Queen’s Z.
And while I admired her very much — we lived in London when I learned to write — I was content with my spelling.
I liked how S, appearing fourth in line, balanced curvy B at fourth from last. I liked its snakelike swirl bumping the planes of I and A. I approved its forward-facing orientation, losing Elisabeth no momentum to hard-braking Z.
My mother agreed. This was its reason for being. She chose S over Z for its curvature. We had no S-based lineage.
She just liked it, and had a daughter, and gave her the name.
I took others in childhood.
I was Lily for a time, as evidenced by miniscule pencil scratches in a porcelain elf’s “Book of Good Children.”
Then, in 4th grade, a cute boy with a buzz cut called me Liz. I felt instantly cooler. I was Liz throughout high school, to my mother’s dismay.
A conundrum came with travel plans. My companion was Liz, too — 1990s Chicago was teeming with us. To avoid awkward introductions, I volunteered myself as Bet.
Like a wager. Like the Hebrew letter. I was Bet through college. My husband met Bet.
As soon as I graduated, I reclaimed my formal name. Disoriented and directionless, I hoped Elisabeth would lend professionalism while grounding me in my true self.
Odd how our names begin our stories for us. Before I could conceive of myself, I was Elisabeth. It’s the first thing I remember knowing, and the first truth I tell anyone else.
Most people hear it as “Elizabeth.” I don’t take offense at Starbucks. Early emails get a free pass. I feel badly when the conscientious catch it and apologize. I don’t mean to lay a trap.
But it’s always lovely when the S is noticed. Unfairly, perhaps, I want it remembered. If someone I’m close to lets a Z slip in, it stings.
“That spelling is pretentious,” I was recently told.
So that’s one meaning. I must think I’m special.
Pretentious spelling. I’m reminded of my first-ever conflict with a teacher, toothpicking mini marshmallows while demanding C be pulled from the alphabet. Its roles, I felt, were served by S and K.
My point was valid then, and I suppose that plaintiff has one now.
Z is the sound. My S is decorative.
It’s for show. A design choice.
A flourish.
Who do I think I am?
Well, this is what I know:
Those who love me agree.
Elisabeth is a beautiful name for me.