What’s in a name?
Vol. 65
IN THIS ISSUE: Essay | In Person | Now Read This | Final Frame
I had a dream recently in which I was being introduced to a class full of young children. One of them, a little girl, asked for my name so she could tell the others. When I told her, she looked angry, shook her head, and said, “But Emily is a girl’s name!”
In the dream, I knew that she knew I was non-binary and understood what that meant, more or less. That wasn’t the issue. It was my name that didn’t compute.
I gently insisted to her that no, Emily isn’t a girl’s name, it’s just a person’s name, like any name. She wasn’t satisfied with that answer, though, and continued to argue. What about all the girls she knew named Emily, how would they feel about someone like me walking around with that name?
I don’t remember if there was any resolution to the scene. Like most of my dreams, another random plot line likely interrupted and took me in a totally different direction. But the feeling of that moment, of that little girl’s resistance to my name, stuck with me even after I woke up.
I’ve been thinking a lot more about my name ever since coming out as genderqueer a couple years ago. So many of my trans and non-binary friends do end up changing their name as part of transition, part of the casting off of labels that no longer feel right and claiming an identity that’s more authentically theirs. Should I change my name? Do I want to? Like so many things about my own personal gender journey (and life, to be honest), I have to really interrogate myself about these questions to figure out if it’s just inertia or laziness that compels my answer…or if it’s truly what I want.
For example: Top surgery. The truth of the matter is that I haven’t felt particularly awkward in my body since maybe my early twenties, when I had enough distance from the traumas of puberty to gain some much-needed perspective and life experience. I like my tits just fine. They’re on the small side, which used to make me feel bad and inadequate because everything around me told me that I should want larger breasts. But turns out what I have fits me just right. They’re easy to bind when I want a flatter-chested look, usually for wearing button-down shirts, and don’t cause too much gravitational trouble when I want to leave them free, either.
All of this spares me the time, pain, logistical hassle, and financial burden that are all necessary parts of arranging top surgery. The lazy and often-broke part of me is especially grateful for that, but I’ve spent enough time examining my feelings about it to know that it’s my actual desire to keep my chest as-is. I also know that, had I been born with larger breasts, it’s entirely possible that calculation would change. I could also still develop cancer or some other condition that requires their removal anyway, and I’m thankful that it wouldn’t cause me any particular angst to lose them, at least.
The point is, this sort of thing is and should be an entirely personal decision. I’ve known cis women who’ve had their breasts removed or reduced, for all manner of reasons. I’ve known trans women who’ve chosen not to get implants, content with being flat- or small-chested. Cis and trans women alike also opt for implants as an essential form of gender- and self-affirmation. All of this goes for non-binary folks, too. There is no one way to be a woman or a man or a secret third thing.
So it goes with names. People pick new names for themselves all the time. The Pope just did it, and you’ll notice no one bats an eye at respecting its use.
It’s not entirely new, this thinking about how I feel about my given name. Growing up in the ‘80s and ‘90s as an Emily meant always being one of a pair or more. I remember fighting over which one of us got to be “Emily No. 1” over “Emily No. 2” with a friend in grade school, when a teacher insisted on those labels to keep track of us. From 1996 to 2007, it was the most common name given to girls in the United States. I still expect to enter any new group setting and find at least one other Emily and am frankly amazed when I don’t.
All of which is to say that I’ve thought, on-and-off, throughout my life about the appeal of a more unique nickname or pen name. There was a period during college when I wrote and posted all my fiction under two different pennames, partially out of a sense that I might appreciate the anonymity (a lot of my writing was Xena fan fiction), partially out of writerly pretentiousness, and partially out of a desire to try on chosen names that I wasn’t guaranteed to run into on someone else.
Lately, I’ve been experimenting with giving different, largely gender “neutral” names to baristas and restaurant hosts. I pay attention to how it feels to hear that name called out. Does it take me a moment to remember that they mean me? Do I cringe a little, or does something unfurl in my chest and bask in the sound of it? No new name has yet felt particularly right, but what has felt nice is the lack of confusion on the face of the asker when I give it. When I instead say “Emily,” I largely notice one of two reactions: Surprise and confusion, because I read as a very masc-leaning genderqueer person, or satisfied, because they think “Emily” has answered a question for them with a binary result.
But is that enough reason to cast off a given name that I’ve never hated or even particularly disliked? Sure, it’s not the most unique, but it’s mine. It’s one of the few tangible gifts I still carry from my parents, who most people in my life have never and will never meet. It is on every byline I’ve ever earned, every credit. To change it would be a massive logistical headache, but is that enough reason not to do it?
Maybe if we didn’t make it so damn difficult to change one’s name–and risk losing fundamental rights like voting or travel because of it–the appeal would be great enough for me to go for it. Maybe not.
Maybe it’s enough to keep my legal name and just lean into the nickname that many folks already have for me: “Em.” It sounds like a single letter, which would put me in the company of so many other non-binary folks that I’ve lost count.
Or maybe I’ll have everyone start referring to me by my roller derby nickname, Ham (short for Hammer Abby), which was unintentional on my part but ultimately an extremely spot-on choice by my teammates.
Who knows, maybe I’ll bust out one of those old fanfic pennames again someday.
Ultimately, I do believe in what my dreaming brain told that surly little girl/piece of my subconscious: Names, like clothes and bodies, have no inherent gender. They are just sounds we use to call out to each other in the wilderness. But we do give them power, and so sometimes it becomes important to take control of that power and wield it in a way that feels right and good.
Sometimes that means changing our names and standing in that personal power. And sometimes it means wearing a name as a defiant, loving, even slightly lazy rebuke to all the assumptions other people make about it–and you, in the process.
In Person.
If you’re in Madison this Saturday, May 17, swing by the Gamma Ray Bar and hang out with me and my band, LINE, alongside the excellent Kat and the Hurricane (also from Madison) and Biitchseat (all the way from Cleveland). It’s gonna be a gay ol’ time!
Then on Monday, June 2, I’ll be in conversation with longtime friend, former roller derby teammate, and current author extraordinaire, Alex Hanna, about her newly published book, “The AI Con: How to Fight Big Tech’s Hype and Create the Future We Want,” at A Room of One’s Own bookshop in Madison - 6 p.m. and free! I can’t recommend this book enough. Very approachably written, funny, insightful, and incredibly important. I want to force every CEO on Earth to read it.
Now Read This.
“Key Changes” [Sabrina Imbler for Orion Magazine]
Speaking of transition, this essay by Sabrina Imbler for the queer ecology edition of Orion - about the first intentional songs on Earth, about voice changes, about karaoke and crickets - is spectacular. You can also listen to it being performed for a recent episode of “Radiolab.”
“Roller derby’s beautiful radicalism” [Me, for Tone]
Will I ever stop talking about roller derby? Signs point to ‘no.’ I’m grateful to the folks at Tone for asking me to write this piece for last weeks’ edition of their Microtones series.
“‘I gave up freedoms.’ Trans man delivers powerful rebuke of military ban.” [Erin in the Morning]
The policy opens up the floodgates to McCarthyist purges of anyone even suspected of being trans. It also pulls the rug out from under countless Americans in the armed forces—alongside an avalanche of other Trump-led attacks on veterans, including vicious budget and staffing cuts to the Veterans Health Administration as well as the veterans suicide hotline.
“Wisconsin leaders need to stop being doormats” [Scott Gordon for Tone]
We need to set a new floor for our demands. It is not sufficient to demand that the Trump administration cease behaving in illegal and unreasonable ways. It is not enough to demand that Trump himself be ousted. Impeachment? Not enough. A stern talking-to in the 2026 midterms, which Trump will absolutely not allow to be conducted in a free and fair manner? Not enough. We must demand the immediate dismantling of this entire regime and the wholesale annihilation of the organized political right in the United States as we know it.
“The kids are, as they say, alright” [Margaret Killjoy]
We’re not cowards. We do not come from fearful people. Our queer ancestors fought incredible odds, and just by fighting, they won. Because what fascists want to do is not just kill us, but drive us into subserviance. Instead, we burned their shit. We rioted across the country and world, everywhere it’s been illegal for us to love one another.
...We’ve got to become kinder to one another. We’ve got to be fierce to our enemies and kinder to everyone else. We’ve got to learn to deescalate conflict. There are people who are our enemies—the people who are trying to destroy us. We’ve got to avoid turning each other into enemies in the meantime.
Final Frame.
We've been really enjoying the beautiful spring weather over here. Oliver in particular is a big sun worshipper, which you can see clearly here. I hope you find moments of bliss like this for yourself, whenever you can.
‘Til Next Time.
Touch grass. Give/receive as much love as possible. Free Palestine.
