Naming Things
Five-year-old Rose,
seeing a three-year-old
riding his dad’s shoulders
down the sidewalk:
“You’re cute.”
Dad to his kid,
amused and a little proud:
“Say thank you.”
Rose to me:
“He’s cute.
I’m going to name him.”
Me: “I think he’s got a name.”
I wonder:
How would that kid feel
getting a new name,
a name not his?
Confused? Insulted?
Constricted? Liberated?
Haven’t we all felt each of those
when others have named us?
It seems everyone I know
at some point in their lives
went by another name,
a middle name, a nickname,
or something invented
out of whole cloth.
Something that says,
“I’m not who you think I am.”
Or
“I’m a new person.”
Or just
“Let’s try this one on.”
Maybe that’s why Mercurius
chose Pope John II in 533 A.D.,
the first but not the last.
We want to break the confines
imposed by others.
We want them to truly see us.
And maybe their naming
is more than presumption.
Maybe it’s
“Oh, wow.
I want to remember this.
I want to remember you.”
You’re cute.
I’m going to name you.
All we have is a few sweet days and naming. White pine, blackthorn, briar —Joseph Fasano, “Poetry”
Sometimes naming is presumption and projection.
Sometimes it’s love trying to remember.
If this resonates, I’d love to hear from you. A comment, a share, or even just a like goes a long way. Writing into the void is its own practice, but knowing the work lands makes it easier to keep showing up.