Let's talk about names. After all, the novel in question is Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake, the very title of which announces its concern with names and naming. Largely because of this concern, not to mention the main character’s search for a cultural identity, I worry that any attempt at a fictive imitation of the novel (which one of my courses has prompted me to try) would devolve into sentimental, thinly disguised autobiography. So rather than strive for fiction and fail, I’ll stick with a response to the book which embraces my autobiographical impulses.
So let’s talk about names. The novel’s most obvious namesake is Gogol, our hero of sorts, who later changes his name to Nikhil, and was originally named for Nikolai Gogol. The idea of naming a child, just born, after a favorite author is somehow beautiful. The act pays homage to beliefs which have shaped my life: that books are important, that writing can show us who we are, that reading straddles the line between self and other, in a way that can open or close the world to us. But the beauty of this naming only holds up because of the unfamiliarity of ‘Gogol.’ If he had been ‘Nick’ from the get-go, no matter its connection to ‘Nikolai,’ the name would have had no resonance.
Obviously, the oddity of ‘Gogol’ is vital to building Gogol’s sense of self as a character. This Russian name, neither Indian nor American, represents his lack of a clearly defined social identity. His name-change to ‘Nick’ constitutes a deliberate step towards establishing an adult, American identity. But this step comes loaded with consequences Gogol could never foresee. The most obvious is the strange burden he has put on his family of deciding which name to call him, and when. At times, his parents slip, call him ‘Gogol’ in front of college friends, roommates, girlfriends. But can they be blamed for using the name they always intended as a family name, a fond moniker for family use?
Only Gogol’s shame creates the need for blame. His parents’ confusion should not itself be confused with shame. Shame closes us to the world, limits our actions, and dictates our desires. Confusion, however, prevents us from accepting cut-and-dried answers to all our questions. Confusion, shared with the world, reveals a self which is searching, willing to listen, and does not intimidate with unexamined assurance. Through confusion, we come to know our own ignorance. How we deal with confusion can become a central building block of our characters. Gogol’s parents respect his name-changing decision, but do not seem to understand it. They do not share his shame at the lack of an easy-to-read American identity. They express their honest confusion through support, and the occasional slip, calling him Gogol. The blame is not theirs for slipping. It is Gogol’s for not recognizing his parents’ confusion and acting to relate it to his own and resolve it. Instead, Gogol blankets his own and his parents’ confusion with a false identity named ‘Nick.’
What better disguise than a new name? Names come with built-in assumptions about who we are and where we come from. They reassure the people we meet that their judgments of us are apt, or perhaps prompt those same people to recategorize their judgment into a different stereotype. But we can turn this around. We can invite everyone around us to revel in our confusion and leave behind the slick, well-made margins of self which may be easier to understand, but are also quicker to confine. What better way to break through the boundaries of surface judgment and invite others to truly know us than to have a name which does not allow for painless pigeonholing?
I have been ‘Cagle’ since 9th grade. I’m not quite sure, twelve years later, how it happened. The story I tell, particularly to those who assume it’s a military family thing, goes like this. At thirteen, I was gangly and pale. My hair flipped at my shoulders and my bangs at my brows. A typical day might find me wearing hunter green tapered denim, a matching turtleneck, and perhaps a snowman cardigan if it was around the holidays. Braces completed the look. I don’t regret not having the friendship of those who scorned my nerdy self; it is what it is, and I choose a regret-free life.
At some point, these unfriendly trendy kids decided the number of ‘Lauren’s’ was a hassle. The popular crowd decided our fates in homeroom one day, and didn’t bother cc’ing me on the memo. The popular Lauren got to be ‘Lauren.’ The only somewhat popular, but definitely not unpopular, Lauren got to be ‘Lauren Marie,’ the middle name tacked on to the first. And I? I was Cagle. Someone did let me know that I got stuck with my last name because I wasn’t girly enough to be a ‘Lauren.’
Was that really how the name got started? At this point, I am as clueless as someone who’s never even heard of that high school, let alone attended it with me. It doesn’t matter. I have internalized this story, as well as my response. At first, I was dismayed. Then, as has happened with so many labels, I decided to embrace it, to proclaim my awkwardness, my penchant for sci-fi, my good grades, my cross-stitching hobby. But the beautiful thing I discovered was that my name did not proclaim any of these things, at least not to all people. The name has become a clear, shape-shifting vessel into which everyone I meet can pour their experiences with and impressions of me.
At times, people make the association with Kegel exercises. That’s fine. I just make sure to let them know, mine’s spelled like ‘bagel.’ Or at least, more like ‘bagel.’ I’m not too picky on the spelling. And why should I be? If I love being ‘Cagle,’ because it creates more confusion than certainty, then it would be silly to insist on correct spelling all the time. As long as it’s right on my passport and paychecks, I’ll survive. And in the process, I find people willing to make conversation. The name is an open door, beckoning people to come in and poke around a bit. All names are that way, making conversation more comfortable. Just think about any awkward moments talking to someone whose name you had forgotten. How pleasurable was that conversation? An unusual name though, not only makes conversation more comfortable, but makes conversation more likely. It is a starting point, the moniker version of a strange tchotchke, if you will.
Of course, ‘unusual’ is a relative thing, in both senses of the word. ‘Cagle’ can be unusual to those who have never heard it before, just as ‘Gogol’ is unusual to those who haven’t read the Russians, or ‘Nikhil’ is unusual to those unfamiliar with Indian names. To my family, though, ‘Cagle’ is unusual only because it isn’t just my last name. It’s what I go by, who I am. They know the name, know how to spell it, but also know me as ‘Lauren.’ My close family, though, calls me ‘Lolli,’ which is unusual in its own right.
I love these many names. I love that they give me different entry points into the world. I love the nicknames they engender: Cagtastic, Cagdeezy, Caglicious. I love that they give me different vantage points of myself and remind me that I am not always who I think I am. When Gogol changed his name to ‘Nikhil,’ I immediately wondered, “But what do you call yourself in your head?” At the risk of sounding somewhat off, when I talk to myself, I use all my names. It is a freeing experience, to be able to see in yourself multiple overlapping selves which combine into a fluid and variable whole. I wonder, does Gogol experience the same freedom? Or has he, through his name-change, simply traded in one static self for another?
Our names give us a reference point in the world, but we should not confuse that reference point with stable fact. Our names make us recognizable, but should not describe or define us. When I worry that I let the oddity of my name do too much defining, I choose to let that worry be a reminder of the good sort of confusion, a reminder of the questions I should be asking of myself. Who am I? How do I express my self to others, respectfully and courteously? What is constant in me, and what am I still creating? What am I razing to make room, and where is there room I haven’t filled yet?
All this from a name. As Gogol’s struggle with his name illustrates his search for self, an embrace of a name can illustrate a conscious creation of self. Here I will leave my musings, but for one small example of how a name can change the game. Those people you see or talk to every week, or every day, at Starbucks or the grocery store or riding the campus shuttle bus or sitting in the library: All those people have names. And if you ask what it is, and share with them yours, they become three-dimensional vessels, ready to be filled with interactions and conversation and that strange satisfaction that comes from knowing who we are in relation to the world around us.
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