When I was younger, every time I stepped into a tourist shop in a highly visited area, I scanned the rotating rack of cheap souvenirs for my name. It was never there. Even if it was, it wouldn’t be decorated with pink tiaras and tutus like I would have wanted it to be; it would have been boring and boyish.
Just yesterday, in a small Christmas shop, I found a similar orbiting display case, presenting necklaces of women’s names scrawled out in a lovely script. Though I knew my name wouldn’t be there and that there were many more feminine names than mine that would not be displayed, I searched regardless. The closest was “Melissa.”
My name is Micah. It is a Hebrew name, taken from the Holy Bible itself. My religion is important to me, sometimes, though I often feel lukewarm. I’m glad it is reflected in my name—yet, sometimes, I wish my parents had chosen something different. Something feminine, like Rebecca or Esther. Like my sister, Ruth, whom we usually call Ruthie.
Ruthie is girlie and friendly, just like her name. She’s a doll—perfect, just like the dolls that she plays with under our (my) desk. She’s the golden girl, ladylike and angelic.
As if she didn’t have enough alternative names, sometimes we call her “Rue.”
I wish my name was nicknameable, like my sister. I wish I could chop it in half so it would be easier to digest and sweeter on the tongue. But no, I cannot shorten “Micah.” It cannot be abridged to become Mike or Mikey, for those truly belong to men. It can’t be just “Mi,” for that sounds almost as stupid as me being jealous of her younger sister’s name. Nor can an extra “ee” be added to my name. It is just Micah, too short to be shortened yet too long to be longer—the name of a prophet; the name of a man.
I feel like Katniss Everdeen, the mean, negative daughter named after a swamp potato, whose younger sister was named after a rose.
At least my middle name is feminine: “Marie.” Just like my grandmother, Marnie, her mother, and my Ma Marie (pronounced Maw-maw Rie, if you care). It is the classic middle name someone could have undoubtedly guessed within five tries. Though it is the most common of my three given names, it is my favorite. It makes up for the lack of beauty in my first name, and it comes from many mothers.
I remember three things about Ma Marie:
The toilet safety device. I thought it was funny when I was little, how the colorful appliance looked like a cane for the toilet. Last Thursday, I went to Marnie’s home for Thanksgiving. I saw that on her toilet. Now it makes me feel sad.
Ma Marie’s bench in the living room. Every time we went to visit her, Dad would help us set the bench on the three stairs that led to the family room. Caden and I would slide down the bench, over and over again. We were having the best time of our lives.
Her funeral. I remember my brother chasing me around on the pews. My mother tried to make us stop, but another lady stopped Mom. “Oh, honey, let them,” the lady said. “Don’t you want them to love this place?”
My surname is McClarty, of Irish or Scottish origin. It means “son of Laurence,” or something. It isn’t very catchy. One couldn’t yell “McClarty!” from across the room to grab my attention; it didn’t sound snappy enough. It doesn’t have the same rhythm as Campbell or Manning. At least my initials are sort of fun: “MMM.” M and M and M.
I’ve always told myself that if I become an actress or a singer or the like, I would change my surname to Sanders or Howard. Maybe I could change my first name too, to something pretty, like Eloise. Eloise can become Elle, Ellie, or Louise. It could even become “Weezy” if I felt like it.
But “Micah” can’t feel like anything. I cannot change it, nor can I change who I am. I wish it was pretty and angelic like my sister; I wish I was like my sister.
My name means “who is like (God).” I am not God… so why is He in my name? Can I not have something feminine but unique? Can I not have something that is mine and mine alone?
