What's In a Name?

This is a post about treating people with dignity.

My full name is Michael Brendan Hepher, but most people call me Mike. When I first meet someone, they often ask if I prefer Mike or Michael. I truly don’t mind either one, but only handful of my very closest friends are allowed to call me Mikey (no thanks to a Life Cereal commercial in the 80s). In French Immersion in Alberta, many of my teachers called me Michel (sounds like: Mee-shell) which is the french pronunciation, but it sounds feminine to the english-speaking ear. A handful of people call me Michael Brendan which is endearing unless it’s my mom—in which case it’s a (mostly joking) reprimand.

My mom was christened Kathryn Maureen Sperry, but I’ve never heard anyone call her Kathryn because someone felt she was more of a Maureen. When she got married she changed her name permanently to Hepher. For most of my life I called her Mom, or Mother on formal occasions, but when our kids were born she chose the moniker Nana and now that’s how all of us refer to her.

In college I was in a band with two other Mikes, and we all played guitar. At rehearsals we referred to each other by our last names to avoid confusion: “Hey, Hepher, turn that guitar down!”

My beer-league hockey teammates mostly call me Heph. It’s a locker room thing; first names are rarely used. You’ll never hear a pro NHLer refer to a teammate by their given name—It’s always a nickname.

My friend Steve always travels with a spoon in his pocket in case he happens upon a potluck. Years ago someone dubbed him Potluck Steve which suited him so perfectly it wholeheartedly embraced by everyone, including Steve. We simply call him Potluck now—or Potlach in formal occasions.

My partner Anie was born in Berlin and christend Annebärbel, a pretty difficult name for us english speakers to pronounce. When her family emmigrated to Canada one of her teachers asked if she could call her Annie, which stuck. At some point she felt like two ‘n’s was not really her thing, and changed it to Anie. When the kids were born she wanted a cargo bike so we picked up an ExtraCycle model called the Radish which she still rides daily. When we moved to Fernie, someone dubbed her Anie Radish, which took off fast enough that many people know her only as that, and many others think my last name is also ‘Radish’. For the record, Radish is way cooler than Hepher. When she ran the youth probrams at the local library, the kids there knew her only as Ms. Anie. When I would go help with programs they would call me Mister Anie which is heartwarming because it meant my connection to them was only relevant in the context of their relationship to her. I personally loved it.

When Anie and I got married we talked about what it would be like for her to carry the last name Hepher. The important thing for me was that our names were the same—I’m not a traditionalist but I liked the symbolism—so we discussed using her name (Mike Schwarz is decent) or even making up something and changing both of our names. In the end, it all seemed too complicated so we took the path of least resistance and went with Hepher so we wouldn’t have to explain ourselves every second day. I have some regrets about that choice; would it have been so bad? It would have been fun to find something that suited us, and that we both resonated with. I like the connection to my history but what about Anie’s history? Our friends Erin and Ferdy unofficially go by Quimby which is much more interesting than Belland or Dalton or Dalton-Belland and no one ever asks if that’s what they have on their marriage certificate.

A few years ago, for several meetings in a row, a colleague referred to me as Dave. I took no offense because I do the same thing; mistakenly calling someone the wrong name repeatedly until they correct me. In my case I politely corrected them, but it kept happening and I kept correcting them. Over time it began to feel like they didn’t care enough to bother learning or remembering my name. Beyond the bit of grace we need to give each other as imperfect beings, our chosen monikers are indicators of the value of our relationship to those around us. When we purposefully disregard the name, we disregard the person behind it. I definitely don’t feel like a Dave.

There’s the name that’s written on our birth certificate, and there’s the thing we are called—it’s not uncommon to find them to be quite different. Nicknames can be a choice we make, or a name that is discovered for us, or something that evolves through time. In every case, it requires an agreement between the individual and the community around them. Names gives us an idea about who we are, what we mean to each other, and who we want to be. When we purposefully choose not to refer to someone by the name that fits them the best, regardless of the motivation for doing so, we are willfully ignoring the person behind the name.

We change names regularly throughout our lives, and yet when a transgender person does, some folks believe it’s different. It’s not. If we operate from the cultural principle that calling someone by their name helps them feel seen and respected, then we must extend that courtesy to people who may be using it to express their gender also. If we casually call Steve by his adopted name Potluck, we have to then extend that courtesy to Allen when they choose Josephine: to do otherwise would be to insult the person without ever getting to know who they are. We don’t have to agree with someone to be able to treat them with respect and decency; all we need to know is what they like to be called. Anything else is social overreach.

There are names that we choose, and names that choose us. The best ones amplify our true selves and help us feel proud of who we are. The worst ones—the names forced on us by others—take a superficial glance and like a carnival house mirror twist our image build the power of bullies.

In grade seven I was sitting talking to another student in english class. As we talked I casually crossed my legs in the same manner that every single person in the history of the world does; becuase it’s comfortable. For some reason it struck this kid as odd and he said “Why are you sitting like one of those Tinkerbell fairies?” and that’s all it took to land me the nickname Tinker for the rest of my junior high school years. I resisted, I fought kids who persisted (which didn’t help one bit). I was angry—not because of what they were hoping it implied—but because I felt like the name didn’t represent me. Bullies take something unimportant and try to make people think that’s who you are in an attempt to tear down. When the external moniker is incongruous with the person inside, it creates all kinds of emotional dissonance. The experience has been part of shaping who I am for good or ill, but I am grateful now if only because it has given me a tiny glimpse into what LGBTQIA2S+ people go through in places where tacit acceptance is low or non-existent, which is tragically still almost everywhere. Imagine what it’s like wondering in every meeting, in every space, with every person, if it’s safe to be authentic? The emotional strain must be tremendous and unrelenting. Life is hard enough, why do we need to make it harder on people around us? And why is calling someone by their chosen name so important?

Names have power; they are symbols of the person they represent. It’s no accident that battles were fought in the name of kings—which invokes the person behind it and all of their power. In the British tradition, ascending monarchs often changed their names to signal the emergence of a new era of their lives or to recall the strenght of a historical predecessor. To this day, many use this same mechanism to signal to those around them that they are ready to showcase their true personage. It might feel different to use a name that (in your expereice) signals a gender shift because we’re not used to it, but calling someone by their chosen moniker is not different at all, and where it is different is actually no one’s business but that individual.

The beauty of this problem is that the solution is really simple: when we meet someone, we should ask them what they like to be called, and call them that. Does it make us feel odd when someone we used to know as Edward wants us to call them Suzie? Sure it takes some getting used to, but that’s our problem, not theirs. Making this simple shift means moving a few blocks around in our heads and hearts, but I know from experience that that work is worth doing; we will be a richer people for knowing the true person behind a name.

If on the other hand we want to make sure every meeting becomes a political statement, a religious debate, or a battle of morality, by all means refuse to use someones’ chosen name. You may think you are doling out some kind of tough love, and standing on some kind of morally higher ground, but in reality that’s just fear preventing you from seeing another person—a real human with loves and worries and fears of their own. Gender fluidity is not contagious—it’s okay to sit across from someone and give them the dignity of authenticity, which is something that can rub off because authenticity is really a kind of bravery, and that is contagious. We can’t truly make changes in our culture unless we are able to have authentic conversations with each other on a personal level, and we can’t do that unless we are willing to really see the person as they want to be known. It can feel really good when someone trusts us with their true selves.

What’s in a name? Nothing and everything. When we meet someone, it’s nothing to us to say a name—it’s just a word after all, and all words are made up—but to the person we are sitting down to try to get to know; it’s everything.

—MH.