What is a Name?
Feeling the after-lunch slump, we, the seventh grade class, stayed huddled in the last class of the day, study hall. Dull gray and blue patterned carpet and beige walls complemented equally beige desks. It was after a Bible class, because I went to a Christian private school. We had listened half-heartedly because it was the last real one of the day, and because it was almost summer.
Our Bible teacher was a Tomboyish Mom of one of the students in the grade. She had short spiky blond-tipped hair and, in hindsight, had a controversial way of teaching the Bible to seventh graders. In class that day, we discussed the value of a name's meaning in determining the path of a Bible character’s life and personality. She declared that the meaning of your name determined your life, and supported this opinion with the story of God changing Jacob’s name to Israel. It was a novel perspective, but limiting.
It sparked curiosity. It sparked discussion. Despite that, in the final class of the day, study hall, I was sitting with a small group of friends, not invested in the topic because I knew where my name came from. My first name came from my Father’s middle name. My middle name came from my Mother’s middle name. One of the blessings of being the firstborn, I guess. I was happy with that. I loved my name. It sounded classy and stately. Blaire Antoinette. Then, because everyone else kept talking about it in this small, seemingly harmless discussion, I was prompted to be curious. What does my name mean? At this time, I didn’t have a smartphone. I had a cute little sturdy red phone that slid vertically for the number keypad and horizontally for a qwerty keyboard, and to be frank, my little sister used it more than I did. Also, I was a goody two-shoes and never carried it around at school. So inevitably, this little spark of curiosity had to wait. Later, when I did look it up, I was relieved I didn’t have to find out the meaning of my name in front of my class. Middle schoolers could be so cruel. I was shocked and dismayed to find my name didn’t mean anything I assumed it would mean. Not “Twinkle,” which was my Dad’s nickname for me, or “Treasure,” like my Mom called me and my sister. Not Smart, or Driven, or Brilliant, or Unique. I would have even taken some of the meanings we discussed in Bible class, “God is deliverance” (Joshua) or even my sister’s name (also biblical), Naomi, meaning “pleasantness” or “joy”.
My name, Blaire, means plain, field, or battlefield. When I did my initial search, I stopped reading after the first word, in shock and horror. What kind of life would a little Black girl named “Plain” live? Does that mean my parents expected me to be Plain? Boring? It is surprising that with my advanced reading comprehension scores, I didn’t even consider that Plain was referring to a field.
Did it refer to my appearance? As a girl, that was a huge offence. As I spiralled, I scrambled mentally for a different narrative. Suddenly, having the names of both of my parents wasn’t cute. My name didn’t sound so pretty anymore. And even worse, I knew that we would be discussing it in my friend group the next day, so I had to find a different meaning somehow. I would never say my name meant Plain. Despite my best intentions to do a deep dive, I was at my computer time limit for the evening, and I only had time to look up my Dad’s first name before I was forced off my home computer, which lived in the corner of the kitchen. (Ironically, I was forced off by my Dad.) His name, Gerald, means warrior. With only his name definition to arm me, I went into school the next day, dreading the topic.
I must admit I have always been a little precocious in independence, deciding from age 9 that I was now an “adult”. So the next morning, I was carefully styling my hair and picking out an outfit that didn’t scream “my name means Plain”. Hoping against hope that–maybe, we would discuss something else. As I got dressed for school, I found my favorite polo, in salmon pink, not my favorite because of the color, but because it was from Aeropostale, an expensive option the cool kids wore. The pants were a lost cause. My mom went out of her way to buy my pants three sizes too big each year so we could “grow into them.” I wasn’t growing at all past middle school.
As I trudged past the office through the lobby, and up the stairs to the second floor, where the “big kids were”, I remember feeling like I wanted to fake sick. My mom never would have bought it. I very rarely got sick. I got to my locker, weighed down by my worries, which felt surprisingly like a backpack. I switched out my books, getting what I needed for homeroom and first period. I avoided the dreaded conversation until recess. When it was brought up, I stayed silent, evading it as long as I could. I did have a plan, but I didn’t feel good lying. I also felt really bad because now I had the information that my name meant Plain. I couldn’t help but think about what the teacher said about how prophetic names could be for people’s lives, like Jacob, birthright stealer, whose name meant “To supplant, overreach”, and was renamed Israel “Triumpant with God” when he got right with God. Or Naomi, renamed Mara, “bitterness” to represent her bitter life, then renamed back to Naomi when her joy was restored. This was my first identity crisis, because I did not want to be Plain. So when I was asked by my middle school frenemy, a little brown haired white girl, what my name meant, I lied and said it meant Warrior, like my dad’s name. Gratefully, there was no way to immediately prove me wrong. But the lie rankled. It stuck around because if I had to lie, it meant there was something wrong with my name. I was obsessed with not being Plain.
I never spoke to my parents about this, but this did have an impact for several months. For example, for a short time, I wanted to be called by my middle name. That never stuck. No one could remember to call me Antionette, and I always answered to Blaire. Then I stumbled upon a sentence, “Good girls never make history.” In my brain, “good” read as “Plain”. So I decided to rebel by eating my lunch in an empty classroom with the company of a book or, occasionally, my friend. We did get in trouble for not being in the right place, and I wasn’t any closer to making history. That was the end of my short stint rebelling. I fought hard to be unique. I cut off my hair in the eighth grade to go natural and be the only one in the grade to walk around with a black panther-esque circle fro in a predominantly white school. That was followed by me performatively reading dense classics like Jane Eyre and Little Women, searching for quirky glasses, playing the cello (most people in my school played brass instruments), and watching anime (it was a statement back then). Every once in a while, when something didn’t get the awe I expected, or the positive feedback from my teacher I wanted, I thought, “Is this because I was named Plain”?
When things went well, I would think, “Well, that’s expected” because I was the type of girl who thought I was so blessed and magical that the skies wouldn’t rain on me when I was outside. When things didn’t I couldn’t help but think, “This is because I am destined to be Plain and boring.” It was a handicap that limited my ability to own up to the ways I failed myself. Instead of assuming there was something I could improve on, I assumed my lower grade was a debuff from my name meaning Plain. Like God was randomly causing a setback because I had to fulfill the prophecy or my name… Plain.
One day, I let part of this sentiment slip into my attitude about chores. I was in charge of mopping the hardwood kitchen floor. When my dad came to me later and asked me why it was done so poorly, I shrugged and said, “I did it. That’s all I can do,” implying a subpar mopping job was the extent of my ability. (Let me let you in on a secret. I never said “that's the best I can do” when it came to doing anything I wanted to do–and my Dad knew it.) He proceeded to lecture me for 45 minutes as he watched me mop the floor again, three more times, until I passed (and it felt more like seven times). His speech could be summarized like this: “Remember, George Washington Carver got the opportunity to study because he worked doing laundry and on a farm. You’re privileged these days. I used to be a janitor when I was in college, and I took great pride in my work.” And finally, the sentence that got me thinking, “everything you do is linked to your good name.”
As I looked down, sweaty now, at the gleaming kitchen floor, something clicked. I had forgotten the source of my apathy toward subpar results. His final point reminded me. My Dad was sharing with me a philosophy he lived by. Doing everything with thoroughness, focus, and to his best ability, because his actions directly shaped his life, his character, and his “good name”. His Dad had also said similar things that my Dad distilled for himself, like “you had better not embarrass the good Coleman name.” And what I heard was, if everything I do can add or detract from my name, then the meaning alone doesn’t matter much.
In my favorite books, my favorite characters were considered Plain or weird by their family or peers. Think Anne, from Anne of Green Gables, and Josephine, Jo, from Little Women. I liked them because, despite what they were told, and despite what people around them wanted for them or didn’t want for them, they advocated for themselves until they got what they wanted.
Anne, who considered herself Plain and unfashionable, had a vibrant personality, saw the beauty in everything, was mischievous and foolish, but brought me so many giggles. She was told at the beginning of her time at Green Gables that they wanted a boy, not a girl, and she wore them down until they let her stay. The result was a warm story filled with childhood brashness and innocent mischief, followed by a woman who made a positive impact on her adoptive family and community. Jo was brash and untidy, and refused the norm–striving despite the time period to be who she wanted to be against all odds. They were the interpreters and determiners of their own lives and stories despite numerous outside factors and influences. They did so even in much worse circumstances than I had ever experienced. These were my favorite stories for years. I’ve read them repeatedly throughout my life. I insisted on introducing myself as Blaire with an “e” for years, because often my name is misspelled just like Anne’s was. After reading Anne’s perspective for the umpteenth time, I realized that the reason I loved her character so much was in her descriptions. She was so dreamy-eyed. Seeing beauty and romance in an ordinary drive or a small pond. In the lovely little house, Green Gables, or in the smallest gestures. Anne was the author of her own life through her perspectives and options. So was Jo. And, I realized, I could do the same. My name doesn’t determine that, I do.
Still, to heal a childhood wound, I looked up the meaning of my name again, just to make sure I had read it correctly. That’s when I discovered I had let an idea based on an incorrect understanding haunt my entire middle school career. My name was never “Plain” as in boring or unremarkable. It was plain, as in an open and level field. Looking up the meaning or symbolism behind a field or battleground, Google tells me it could represent openness or an opportunity for growth. Biblically, it is used to symbolize the world or the church, a field that was sown and harvested for fruit, positive behavior. Other meanings included a connection to nature or personal potential.
Ironically, my seventh-grade self never looked up my middle name. When I did, just now, I found it means “highly praiseworthy, or priceless.” I think not looking it up ended up being a good thing. Imagine what awful, embarrassing memories I would have from having an ego the size of Texas in middle school.