What's in a name?

Did you ever feel like your name was a strange label for yourself? I was just lying in bed and thinking about my name. Hannah. Hannah. hannah! Why did I start thinking about my name? I was thinking about the film Freedom Writers, and thought to myself, "If I ever become a teacher, I would want people to call me Hannah." It's unprofessional, perhaps, it's uncouth or unorthodox, but I never heard it enough- and those who said it to me, I treasured unduly (perhaps). I think about the men I have loved who called me by my name- not baby, but hannah. There's an interesting book called The Forgotten Beasts of Eld- one of my favorites- and in it, knowing the name of someone- and also giving them your name- is a way of belonging to that person, who is then able to call you within their own soul from wherever they are, and you would have to respond to them, and-somewhat sinisterly- could be captured in this way. I liked the idea of giving your name to someone, of protecting it as a metaphor for your deeper identity- and, most of all, of knowing this identity and coveting it, as something worthy of protection; to cherish, and to give it sparingly, but ultimately to give it knowingly and fully when the time was right. Your name could also be found and taken, and only if the person gave it back to you could you walk away, free.

I find this concept interesting in many ways. You can give your name to somebody and risk losing it, risk them guarding just that name and not allowing you to grow, of having it lost from others in ancient texts, but to have that mean freedom- being independent and free in knowing and guarding the name-identity as a sacred object. I think back now on how important of a message it is- to know yourself and have control over your identity, and not to lose that in someone else.

But back to my name: I want to take out a photo of myself right then and write Hannah hannah Hannah hannah hannah all over it just so I could look at myself like everyone else looks at me. I went to this amazing bar last night in downtown Chicago where four unbelievably talented musicians got suggestions of what to play, and switched between piano, guitar, electric violin, and drums- whichever they could play best for that song. I was brought by one of the musicians and sat with girls I haven't seen in 8, 9 years. They saw Hannah, a Hannah they haven't seen for almost a decade, I was still somehow recognizable by face and name to them- even though I'm an unrecognizable me to that former self. They were kind, sweet, we exchanged the pleasantries and generalized 9 years away in the space of a few short bursts of conversation. I bet they are so different, but I got to know them last night about as much as I knew them before, so they are still the same women to the same faces- at least to my eyes.

How does this happen? I don't believe that I'm hannah. I can't see the hannah that they see, I find it shocking that they can recognize me from years of faces and come up with a little placard- even though I can do the same with them. I just don't hear it enough, I get "hey" and "hb" (Hannah banana) and "What's up" and "hi" but not often "hi hannah, hello hannah, what's up hannah." It seems like such a funny name now. I wonder if other people laugh when they say it, because all I can do is laugh now when I say it to myself. Hannah hannah hannah. And then, it's so strange to me that I can walk up to someone in the grocery store who I saw every day for a year, who I sang with in the madrigal choir, who I looked after because he was so sweet and young and talented, and I have to say "I'm hannah" for him to understand who I am. That name that I can't see on myself, that I want to paint onto all of my pictures so that I can make the connection. And still, I want to hear the name, nobody calls me hannah anymore. "Hey hannah? can you pass the salt?"