Name-mocking will end a certain way
Does our name affect who we become? Staring at the mirror can turn into a mocking game. And there are three ways it can end.
Friends-
Ever had someone called you some name that you don’t like?
Then comes the laugh.
When someone laughs—at us, our name, or anything we do—they’re telling the truth. That they find something worth laughing at. And the explanation of the truth is usually a lie.
“Just kidding.”
Except a joke is only funny if it has some semblance of truth.
The thing is, a joke is the most honest lie that exists.
The first time I noticed this was in a public bathroom.
Our school back in the tropical heat where I grew up is like an underground subway in a New York summer afternoon. You don’t want to stay in it for too long.
The stench of sweat and body heat was everywhere.
I was the only one in the stalls when I heard it. It sounded like someone had slammed a door and the window panes shook. Except I knew there were no windows in the bathroom.
I flushed and stepped out. To the right, a heap of used paper towels. Soaking whatever suds and sewage water was on the floor. To the left, a small shoulder. His head was hung down.
He was gripping the sides of the wet sink.
As if knowing that escape is just a slippery road back to the beginning.
I noticed a singular cut on his knuckle.
And smudged hand prints on the mirror.
It was Handoko. Where I grew up, many people only have one name. No first and last name. Just one name.
I didn’t need to ask why he’s upset. I’ve heard what the other kids have been calling him all week: “Handukku.” Which translates to “My Towel.”
When he saw me, he just froze. His fist tightened.
I thought I saw a drop of blood dripped onto the damp floor.
But his eyes were dry.
He just stared at me. I don’t know if it was straight at my eyes. Or through them. It was like he wasn’t really there. Lost somewhere. In a world where he had no name.
The bell rang at a distance.
My first hunch was to just walk away. But something tells me if I did, I’d break his journey to another world.
My second hunch was to say something. Anything. Probably nothing meaningful. Only trite and passing. But if I did, his cut fist probably would’ve landed on my face. Or worse, back at the mirror. And maybe even at his own face. And somehow, that seemed worse than letting him drift afar.
The old Handoko was already somewhere else. The new one, the one in front of me—now seemed … off. Like he’s only half human. Like he’s only capable of clinical functions.
When he walked away, I knew old Handoko was gone forever.
Handoko no longer cracked jokes in the classroom. He no longer interrupted the teacher with smart jabs. All his friends left him alone. They said he changed.
I don’t think they knew.
He didn’t change. He’s just now no longer the name.
…
Kids can be so mean sometimes.
But then again, we all were kids once. The only difference is that kids don’t know that a joke is an honest lie.
We do. Myself included. And we keep doing it.
Why?
Little Apple & Chicken-Egg
My friend Rick Apple and I used to make fun of each other’s names. He called me “Little Toe.” And I called him Rapple Snapple. I think he only ever called me “Thalia” once.
My name was never weird to me until I came to America. And after living in America for some time now, I’d have to agree with Rick. It is kind of funny. To the point that we believe its meaning. And the implications of how it sounds.
It’s kind of like the legendary martial artist Bruce Lee. If he was born the same exact person and his name was anything but Bruce Lee—I’m not sure if I’d buy his origins, rock-hard abs and wood-snapping skills. And yes, it could just be because his name now is now synonymous to his work. So it’s a chicken and egg thing.
But still, my question is:
Why do we measure people up and down, based on—not even what their name means, but based on—what their name “sounds” like?
I made this same mistake with Bruce’s last name Lee.
When I first heard about Harper Lee’s American classic How to Kill a Mockingbird, I seriously thought I was going to read a book about martial arts.
Obviously, I did *not* grow up in America.
This mistake was …
Firstly, because most people I know with the last name “Lee,” were of eastern origins. It’s not just Bruce.
Secondly, because of the references to killing. This was obviously before the days of online reviews.
And, clearly before I learned that the Anglo-American last name “Lee” came from the word “Leah.” Which means open field, in Old English.
What a great name.
“What’s in a name?”
… is not just a Shakespearean prose.
It actually addresses a darker human condition:
Our names get to call some of the shots.
Whether we liked it or not. Shots WE should be making.
If we’re talking Shakespeare, just imagine if his name is “Slide”.
“Hamlet,” by Slide.
Nah.
It just doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. Will his work still span across generations? Will it still be as timeless? Will we revere his work to the same degree? Will his work even become popular to begin with?
Logic compels us to believe that it would. That we can look beyond the name.
But it just hasn’t been proven that we are, indeed, able to see beyond someone’s name.
Especially when it has an unusual ring to it.
Let’s go deeper.
What if Paul Newman’s name is Poodle Nitron? Will he be the same iconic screen legend in our minds?
What if Albert Einstein’s name is Ert Ebby? Will we still be singing tunes about his sharp genius?
What if Maya Angelou’s name is Mice Arachnoid? Will we still feel the comforting warmth of her intelligent words?
What if Abraham Lincoln’s name is Archibald Loony? Will we still feel that he is one of the deserving forefathers of American history?
What if Amelia Earhart’s name is Ape Eeller? Will we still feel that she is the darling of modern aviation, whose untimely end merits our remembrance?
Sure, these alternative names are ridiculous. Nor would any parent name their kids in such a way. If they’re sane and loving parents.
But that’s exactly the point.
No one would name their kids this way. BECAUSE they know a name is not just a sound. At the very least, the child is stuck until they’re older.
Our name calls some of the shots about how our life story is perceived. By others. And maybe even by ourselves.
But that is, of course, IF we choose to live our life as a derivative of our name. Or whatever label people give us. Or whatever we’re known or not known for.
The short one. The big one. The slow one. The quiet one. The awkward one. The dark one. The nerdy one. The late one. The new one. The old one.
So it seems, that there are three ways this game could go. If we should even call them ‘games.’
1
Life as a derivative of the name
Here, the name and label keeps calling the shots. And we just follow along. The reality is that this is just one possible outcome. There’s also …
2
Life as a departure from the name
Sometimes we hate what ended up on our lap so much that we’d do anything to fight it. To make it go away. And to disassociate ourselves from it.
The problem is, I’d imagine this is like walking on the moon.
We are both exhilarated and terrified by how far we are from earth. And by the vast space ahead.
We are at once faced with how far our past was and how far still our future might be. And most importantly,
We become aware that neither paradox can possibly exist without the other.
Which leaves us with …
3
Life as wings for the name
Harper Lee had a point.
“Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us.”
Think about being in the dead of night.
My daughter once curled into my blanket at 4:44 am. Everything was dark.
She doesn’t normally wake up that early. So this time, I knew something was up. We were 2,000 miles away from home in another country. In a whisper, I asked her what’s wrong. She’s never one with many words. So she just shrugged and shook her head.
But seconds later … a jackhammer banged a block away.
Few seconds—another bang.
Then another. And another.
I watched the small of my daughter’s profile in the dark as this went on. With every bang, there’s a jerk on the same shoulder that attempted courage. Like Handoko’s shoulders, hers seemed smaller now. But unlike his, hers seemed more pliant.
It’s easy for me to just go, “Oh, it’s just some noise.” And I almost did that. Because sleep was calling. But then ... something else called. It wasn’t that obvious.
It was almost silent.
A single chirp.
It was like one of those sounds that you’d hear when you walk into an abandoned theater. If you walk in, stand in the middle of all the empty seats, look around at the vastness of the space, and say even just one word quietly—you’ll know what I mean.
There’s a resonance to it. But you never need to be loud to produce it.
That single chirp was like that.
I watched my daughter’s profile next to me as light began to take over. She had turned her face towards the window. She wanted to hear more.
Another chirp.
And her shoulders relaxed. The next chirps became a song to her. Not an alarm clock.
A song-
And her breathing turned rhythmic.
That day, the chirp reminded me of something.
There are still birds left in the city.
The ones left, are precise.
In the song of a singular flight, you could almost hear martial artistic precision.
But it never needs to be a “derivative” or even a “departure”—to accomplish this.
When a singular chirp can break the night into … a sigh of relief … There’s a responsibility to let that bird—sing.
We always want our work to be a jackhammer. For it to be heard everywhere. We always want our name to make people think of a rock-hard martial artist.
Except we forget that a mockingbird CAN be both artistic and militant. Especially when it embraces the responsibility of its slight name and label. And lets out a song anyway. With sharp singularity into the night. One note at a time.
Even if they’re the first (or even the last) of their name—to do it.
-Thalia
Thank you Kerry. And I’m loving all this knowledge on Bruce. What a legend, isn’t he? This might be a good excuse to go down the rabbit hole of research: but did anyone really ever figured out how exactly he died?
Hey Nick- Good point on Bruce. I have heard that there are others whose skills surpass his (which is hard for me to imagine), but then again I don't know martial arts. Which do you practice? I heard judo is surprisingly tough. And yes, as far as your Greek name, I'll bet the added cred would be nice. Did you ever learn what the original Greek name your dad has?