Back in elementary school, we had those “how’d your parents name you?” discussions.
I remember hating these convos because my own moniker was inspired by a fictional man in a classic movie called Gone With the Wind. In an act of defiance against being named in such an insulting and unsexy way (not only was he a dude but one who kinda looks like Kenneth from 30 Rock), I vowed never to watch the movie.
But I also tried to compensate for it early on by acting as chick-like as I could. Every feminine figure – from the Disney princesses to the slut from Roger Rabbit – was an idol to be emulated. And the Scarlett colored cherry on top was that I did what any self-respecting kid would do to preserve their status in their social group when being queried about their man name.
I lied.
Sometimes I’d even tack on my middle name to make myself feel better – but “Ashley Nicole” just sounded kinda like a porn star. In fact I think it is a porn star. Which is maybe why I kept using it for so long. Moving on. So what’s in a name anyway? Does it really carry any meaning about me as a person? Should I have been such an insecure asshole about being named after a dude? Yes and no, says science. According to a study done back in 2005, boys given girl names ended up with behavioral issues that resulted in poor school performance and amplified later in life like a delinquent domino effect. Does the same hold true for girls given boy names?
Does that explain why I ended up the way I did?
The “yes” is that I indeed may’ve been a little self-conscious overall – this fear of being teased seems to be what spurred those initial emotional issues for the boys in the study. Thankfully, I eventually could blend in with the plethora of Ashleys named after trees or whatever else they were and no one could tell someone with a nutsack inspired my naming. Plus, once the 90’s were in full swing, Full House’s “D.J.” with her tomboyish sounding name and the daughter from Beethoven (was it Bryce or Rice?) made it seem okay to be less femme.
But I wasn’t buying it.
Even so, the “no” part of this study is as obvious as any other self-actualization process. A name doesn’t matter. What you are, does. Or as Leonardo Dicaprio said when he was Romeo in that movie with the iceberg and car sex, “Rose, by any other name, you would still look good naked on my sketch pad.” I might be confusing a few films there. But the point remains: once you recognize how stupid and irrelevant something is, you can’t use it as a crutch anymore. You have to move on.
It’s kinda like how I was born into this evolved hairless ape body instead of becoming a peaceful little pebble on the shore (like I requested pre-re-incarnation when those asshole samsara secretaries took an extended lunch and missed processing my next-life paperwork).
So, I was given a homosapien body and a six letter name.
I didn’t get to choose what’ll be on my name tag later when I give up on life and go become a waitress – just like I didn’t get to fulfill my dream of being an ocean rock. But this life body and its label have come to be part of the way other people can zoom in on me with their brain scanner and process me as a person. We call that “identity”. It’s not who I am.”I” could change my name tomorrow or die in a car fire. Then what happens? Aside from hopefully everyone trying a bit of my rotisserie human meat suit, which I totally endorse you doing.
(I mean why not? I’m not using it anymore. I don’t care.)
Me either, my dude.
‘cause whether I come back as a stone or a mallard or a falafel sandwich, all’s you’re left with is still just an abstract idea you called Ashley once this version of me’s Gone with the Wind. And on that note, I’mma finally go make peace with my name by watching this damned movie.
(While decked out in full overcompensatory O’Hara girly regalia alone on my couch)