Rambling about Naming

I've got a name kink. For real. I like names. I like stories about names. People who say my name the way I say it get bonus points. I really like names and I'm always interested in the whys of choosing names. Names are intensely personal and yet very public. They're one of the first gifts parents give their children, and one of the most lasting.

My name is "They Came Together And United." That might suggest to you that "James" and "Joseph" are not names I considered when looking at baby names. I named my kid "Let Us Be Glad." Though English is my first language and the only one I have ever been fluent in, I've never wanted to give anyone an English name. Instead, I chose a name that contained all the love and hope that I had for my newborn and three years later, we both like it. It may not do much good on a resume, but I've never seen it as my duty to make myself palatable to the mainstream, nor is that a value I would hope to pass on.

One thing I've always wondered is what it's like to grow up with a name that is full of meaning that is automatically understood by everyone in your community…how that shapes how you grow. What if, rather than a dismissive "that's different" or a blank "that's pretty," telling people your name is just straightforward. So if your name is "In the Night" or "In the Hand" or "My Hope" and everybody just calls you that without thinking AND knows exactly what it means, does that lift you up? Make you rooted?

I know someone who chose her children's names to sound like "senator's names." An Illinois senator named Barack notwithstanding, looking at the names of current senators suggests she was right to choose solid English names. A research study confirms what everyone assumed was true anyway--"African American sounding" names get fewer callbacks on equivalent resumes. Which has caused some people to remove race markers from their resumes--organizations, experiences, and even their names. I find this a little heartbreaking.

Outside of considering giving someone a namesake, it never occurred to give anyone an English name. The only two that ever really impressed me were "Excel" and "Sincere." Not sure why, but those speak to me.

Anyway, I've been rambling about this because the first baby born in 2014 in some Texas hospital was named "So'Unique Miracle." That apparently is enough to spark internet vitriol directed at the parents. Which is a bit *odd* to me. Maybe it's because, to me, the name suggests her parents value her. Maybe it's because I'm sure there are many who'd have plenty to say about my naming choices, if I cared to listen. Maybe it's because we're just coming off Kwanzaa. Maybe it's because I remember a baby Miracle from years ago whose name caught me off-guard, but eventually seemed perfect. Maybe it's because being on Team Parent makes me wanna scream "we're doing the best we can, back up off!!!" half the time.

Regardless, I hope all our children take the gifts of the names we give them and benefit from them and rename themselves, if and when they need to.

Toddler Food

I am lucky. Some people have children who are picky eaters. Their children refuse to eat anything other than chicken and pasta. Or the kids will only eat breakfast then pick at food the rest of the day.

My child will eat anything and a lot of it.* I guess my first hint should have been at 9 months: my Boobaloo crawled in lap and demanded to sample my ginger tea. It was home-brewed ginger tea and it was STRONG. I shared a sip, figuring it would be the last request. After a tiny sip, he tried to get the cup again, insisting, "Mo'! Mama, mo'!" Anyone who can appreciate the spice of a properly made fresh ginger tea is not going to be a boring eater.

I decided that slathering artichoke-spinach hummus on a tortilla and topping it with a slice of tomato sounded good. Booba agreed and gobbled that up, along with walnuts and strawberries, for lunch.

Life is good.

* So far, he's turned down arugula and has picked the rosemary leaves out of his alecha. Everything else seems to be on the good list.

Habari gani? Ujima!

I am mother. This is now the core of my identity. Everything else I am is secondary. I remember, a decade and a half ago, in a discussion around identity politics, one person was very adamant that she was a physicist before she was a woman. I didn't understand at the time how an acquired role could become more essential than one she had worn since childhood. I understand now.

Before I was a mother, I was more involved in my communities. Volunteering was an important part of my life, supporting or belonging to various groups was a priority. Since I've had a child, particular one who is rather…active, I haven't been volunteering or investing my time in the groups who are doing good work in the community. I feel the pendulum about to swing back.

I am raising male child. As much as I don't want sex/gender to matter, as much as I joked about only revealing Booba's sex to those who changed diapers, as much as I find it ODD that so much emphasis and expectation are placed on the genitalia a person a person has, I am very aware that my child is a Black male in this society. Before I was a mother, the murder of Trayvon Martin may have made sparked righteous indignation. As the parent of a spirited, amazing, beautiful Black manchild, I still felt the injustice pulling at my bones, but the sense of loss, of mourning, of powerlessness felt so much more intense. As a mother, I feel a heightened sense of responsibility for my brothers and their safety as they navigate a society that views them as a threat.

Every time a police officer acknowledges my two year old, I feel the most striking sense of cognitive dissonance. When they wave and smile as I tow him in the bike trailer, when they offer him stickers, I want to ask--to demand--that that remember this when he is 16. That the same spirit whose beauty they appreciated then, now walks in a bigger body. When they're deciding to investigate what he and his friends are doing, I want it remembered that our young men *are* part of the community that the police are charged with protecting.

As I reflect upon the principle of ujima during this Kwanzaa, I am very aware that my brothers' problems are my sisters' problems are my problems and I commit myself to joint work to solve them.

Connections

After more than two years of ignoring the fireplace, suddenly Booba has been getting soot on socks, toys, fingers, cheeks and everything else. It has been extremely frustrating and just was not making any sense to me. Until yesterday. Booba told me that presents come from the fireplace—ah, the light bulb above my head was bright.

I have never talked to Booba about Santa Claus. I didn’t grow up believing in Santa—I was very aware that presents did not come out of a magical void, that there was definitely a cost associated with them. Especially since I don’t celebrate Christmas, there seemed no need to seed an impressionable mind with what I consider nonsense. So, if we lived in a bubble, Booba would never believe that getting dirty in the fireplace will result in presents. We do not live in a bubble. I have a job and while I am at said job, Booba goes to a daycare where they apparently discuss magic elves delivering gifts through chimneys.

Finally understanding just why soot is suddenly an issue in my house, I yearned for the bubble—that safe place where I wouldn’t have to worry about outside influences teaching my child questionable things. I could postpone all those philosophical discussions I’m certainly not trying to have with a two year old.

One day’s frustration aside, I really don’t want that bubble. I appreciate the women at the daycare, who love my child and take care of Booba when I’m working. They teach him about shapes, skipping, and sharing. He gets to practice having friends, including apologizing when he hurts his friends. I appreciate my relatives whose houses don’t have the same rules as mine, who care for my child, even when they don’t do things the same way I would.

I realize that who I am, who Booba is, who we are as a family, only exist in the context of our extended family, our community, our city, our peoples, our nation, our world, our universe. I give thanks for the connections that bind us, uphold us, and lift us, despite my smaller moments when I just want that bubble. I set my intention to live more in the us, and less in the me.

Habari gani? Umoja! Today, my spirit celebrates unity.

Parenting for Public Critique

Since I last blogged, quite a bit has changed in my life. The biggest change is that I became a parent. I now have my Booba who toddles madly around the house, wreaking havoc. Other than the fact that a baby's reach is always farther than you think it is, the biggest lesson for me has been that people constantly feel the need--the right? the obligation?--to question others' parenting judgement. Family, friends, acquaintances, and assorted strangers feel the need to offer unsolicited advice.

The first time this registered to me, Booba was only a couple of weeks old. I was pulling him out of the car and securing him in the baby carrier when some random woman came up to me and insisted that I needed to always cover his eyes and keep him out of the sun. Apparently this rule was even important during the 30 seconds it was taking to slide him into the carrier. I was not impressed, but kept quiet because I really do try to respect elders. Apparently I did a poor job, as my aunt later informed me that I gave her a...quelling look.

So, the other day I'm talking with my friend and she asks whether I'm going to "let him eat meat." Um...there are really two responses to this:

1. Sure--when he's old enough to make an informed decision on his own, he is perfectly welcome to use a portion of his allowance to purchase meat. I would guide him toward healthy choices that were raised humanely and sustainably, but otherwise, it's really up to him.

2. So...are you going to let your kid be an atheist? What?!? You mean you're taking him to church with you on Sundays? You're not giving him a choice? What if he doesn't want to go to church? Oh, you mean as his parent you raise him to according to your ideas of what is good and right? You think that when they're small they need to be guided and directed? Really? I see.

Perspective, people, perspective.