What's in a name?

I carried my given name with me for about 25 years. It was what I was called even before I was a born. It was printed on my birth certificate. It was the name I learned to write as a child. It was the name on my diploma and my B.A. degree. It was printed on my school awards, essays, the first piece of writing I had published, and on my first license. It was written on opening pages of books, in letters to friends, on certificates and forms. Quite simply, it was me.

...That is, up until two months ago. On May 15th, 2014 I went to court and had my last name legally changed to my great-grandmother's maiden name. This is something I considered doing for many years. Graduating with my M.A. degree, having access to some money for legal fees, and starting my teaching career made me think the moment was finally right.

There were multiple, complicated reasons for this name change that certainly expand beyond the scope of one blog entry. This decision is a product of years of conversation, research, and especially personal introspection. I'll try, however, to briefly explain my top three reasons:

1) To honor my female heritage: For good or for bad, I know I am who I am today because of the women in my life. My mother, my Yiayia, my aunt, and some of my close female cousins all deeply shaped and influenced me. While I am blessed to know some great men, it is ultimately the women who "made" me. If a name reflects who we are, then it is only appropriate for it to reflect them.

2) To honor my Greek heritage: Although I am also German, I have always identified strongly and passionately as Greek, mostly because it is the culture that was most impressed upon me while growing up. I was closer to my mother's side of the family, and I deeply connected to my Greek culture's love of things like food, education, politics, and especially, family. My legal name is undeniably Greek now, and while it's certainly not the easiest to pronounce, I feel proud to carry and display that heritage to the world.

3) To specifically honor my Yiayia (grandmother): I am lucky to say that I haven't lived a single day on this earth without my grandmother. My "Yiayia" has lived with me since I was a baby, and has been a part of my daily life since the moment I first drew breath. She has been one of my greatest friends, my second-parent, teacher, and role-model. Unfortunately, she was not so lucky herself; her mother--my great grandmother-- died of a sudden heart attack when my Yiayia was 21 years old. It is a loss that she continues to deeply feel, even sixty five years later. My name change is to honor her, as well as the woman who she loved and lost so tragically young.

4) To create a new identity for myself: Ultimately, a name (especially a last name) is narrative. It carries a (sometimes good, sometimes bad) story. It connects you to something beyond yourself. It ties you to people, to places, to cultures, and traditions. At this stage in my life, lots of people are changing their names through marriage. They've had the pleasure of living 20some odd years with their birth name, and then establishing a new name as they start a family. Putting aside the fact that I am single, I always knew, for both political and personal reasons, that if I got married, I would not take my husband's name (I realize that this is not a popular opinion, but unless both people are willing to hyphenate, I don't believe that women should change their names). Despite this stance on marriage, however, I did nonetheless feel a desire to join my married friends and establish a name for myself beyond what I was given at birth.

And the time felt right. While there is still much growth to be done, at this point in my life I feel more confident, more peaceful, more sure of my desires, hopes, fears, and strengths than ever before. I wanted a new name to reflect that confidence, assurance, stability, and "meness" (a la Toni Morrison). I decided that choosing a name for myself--a name not granted by my parents or predicted by the spouse I one day choose--was perhaps one of the most independent, personal decisions I could ever make for myself. I could make a conscious choice on my own about something that I would carry with me (literally) to the grave. Ironically, names are our greatest identifiers--they declare to the world, "This is me"--yet, we rarely have much say in them. I feared what Desdemona once said: "I [could not be] the meaning of a name I did not choose." Quite simply, I wanted a choice. For me, choosing my name and having a say in something that important, was not only a way for me to declare what I was called, but also who I was.

I have chosen my name, and I have chosen my meaning. And that is me.

Saying Goodbye to 504

Right now I am in the process of dealing with an upcoming loss. It's not the loss of a person. It's the loss of a place: my apartment. This week my lease will be up, and I will move out of this little one-bedroom space that I've learned to call my second-home. I've spent many nights alone now packing up boxes, organizing things, getting stuff ready for storage. These times have offered me some quiet moments of reflection--something that I always really need when I am dealing with any kind of significant transition.

I moved into my apartment in August 2012. I went from living with my family to living alone. I didn't know a soul here. When I told people I was going to live alone, a lot of people warned me that I might be sad or scared-- after all, I was a commuter during undergrad, meaning I went from living with 5 loud and ever-present people to living completely independently without any kind of roommate experience. Despite these warnings, however, I found that I loved living alone; in fact, I relished in it. Living in a new place was hard, but not the living alone part.; in fact,  I loved the quiet, the privacy, and the idea of knowing that a space was only "mine." I loved declaring and establishing a sense of "home" for myself that I created and maintained all by myself. 

It was a beautiful space, too. You hear horror stories about people's first apartments, and I have to say that mine wasn't the standard scary narrative. I was very lucky; my apartment was in a safe area, in a quiet building with friendly neighbors and a nice landlord. It had large beautiful windows that over looked trees and a local park, it was in walking distance of my university, stores and restaurants ranging from Thai to sushi, it had lots of light, lots of space, and possessed a simple kind of charm. Nothing broke--not even once. It was an expensive area and the complex wasn't cheap, but it was worth the money. 

A part from these practical things, my apartment holds sentimental value because it is the place where I truly grew up. That sounds cliche, but it's true. It's the space where I processed some deep loss and deep happiness, where I experienced intense loneliness but also learned the true value of being alone, received great news and also heart-breaking phone calls, where I did the intense work to gain my MA degree, where I planned my first college-lessons as a TA, where I threw my first dinner party, saw dreams actualized, where I took care of myself when I was sick, where I discovered the joy of inviting friends (both old and new) into a space that was completely "mine," where I cooked, did laundry,  paid my bills, managed my finances, did dishes, dusted, vacuumed, learned how to clean a stove and put together a TV, decorated the walls, planned my future, unpacked groceries, baked treats for my grad school friends, got ready for dates, coped with a depression, watched President Obama win re-election, did Yoga on the living room floor. And, most importantly, I did all of these things all by myself. There was no roommate or person down the hall to talk to me, bhelp me, or even distract me. It was just me. These moments taught me independence and strength-- traits I already possessed but that came into full bloom when living alone. (A friend and mentor of mine actually joked, "Some people can't be that independent. You do alone very well. Maybe too well.")

I am moving back home with my family during the time  before starting a Phd program. I love my home and there are many beautiful things and people waiting for me there. I will, however, nonetheless miss my little apartment and all of what it represented.  There will never be another 504, but I like to think that I carry it--and all of what I learned while in  it--wherever I go. The interesting thing about places is that we may dwell in them for short time but they often dwell in us for far longer. I am proud to have that in me, and I am especially proud to say that I did (as the title of this blog suggests) find a new place, and it was very "right." Thank you, 504. Thank you.