“Hi! My name is (what?)
My name is (who?)
My name is Slim Shady”
The doorbell rings. I open it.
Delivery guy: Can you sign for the package?
Aisha: Sure
Delivery guy: Your name?
Aisha: Aisha
Delivery guy: Can you spell it?
Aisha: A-I-S-H-A
Delivery guy: As in the country?
Long pause
Aisha: No, not as in the country. A-I-S-H-A
Delivery guy: Last name?
Aisha: Lelic
Long pause
Aisha: L-E-L-I-C
Delivery guy: Have a nice evening.
I stare at him blankly. It’s 11:00 am.
When I was in primary school, the other kids used to tease me about my name. They would circle around me. One kid would ask me what my parents’ names were. Then another kid would yell out, “What’s your brother’s name.” And then a third would ask what my sister’s name was. I would tell them, each and every time they asked. And every time I did, they would laugh and then ask me all over again.
I hated it.
I couldn’t understand why our names were so funny to them. Why they took such pleasure in taunting me about them. Sure, they’re not common. They’re not your average Aussie name but so what?
Those kids made me feel small – uncomfortable and embarrassed. But because I was a shy kid, I never got angry with them. I never stood up. I didn’t fight back. Inside though, I was ashamed. Ashamed of my difference. Ashamed of my heritage. And as a result, I hated my parents for giving me this name. I used to pretend the initial J of my middle name stood for Jane.
It doesn’t. It stands for Jasmina, pronounced with a Y.
Now – well – I love my name. And I’m proud of where my family came from. It took me a long time to get over that shame. I just wanted to fit in. To be like every other kid in my class.
But I wasn’t.
I was the girl with the weird name and I stood out.
Aisha is an Arabic name, written عائشة. It means ‘she who lives’ or ‘womanly.’
I have a tattoo of this on my arm. It reminds me to be true to my identity. To relish in my heritage and to be proud of who I am.
That’s why names are important to me.
When I’m creating a character for a piece of writing, I can’t go forward with the story until I have worked out what their name is. It’s a lengthy process and often involves a lot of frustration.
- What does she look like?
- How old is she?
- What makes her tick?
It’s like picking a name for your newborn baby. It just has to fit.
Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Sherlock Holmes, Veruca Salt, Atticus Finch, Boo Radley, Bucky Wunderlick. These are great names. They fit the character perfectly because they are the character.
I get this and want it for my own characters.
Their names often pop into my head when I’m walking, when I’m least expecting it. I then rush home, repeating the name over and over again so as to not forget it. I should take a note pad with me.
I should do a lot of things.
Some of my own favourite character’s names are:
- Hunter Reid
- Max Obershite
- Annie Grey
- Lucy Longhorn
- Jacob Hunch and Thomas Hinch
Sometimes the names of characters I haven’t written yet come to me. I jot them down in my phone or on my notepad. It’s a handy practice.
So what’s in a name?
Everything.
Shakespeare wrote in Romeo and Juliet, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet." Spoken by Juliet, these words suggest that a name is just a label to differentiate one person from another. That names do not hold value. They’re just toe tags in a morgue.
I respectfully disagree.
My name is the whole enchilada. I identify with it. It’s an important part of the baggage I carry around with me. I am Aisha.
What about you?