What’s In a Name...
On self-naming, inherited identities, and the quiet freedom of choosing who you become.
What is a name?
A philosophical question wrapped in sound.
A narrowing.
A label.
A way humans point at the wild mystery of a thing and say... there. That. Cat. Bird. Mother. Wife. Failure. Success.
As if naming something tells us what it is... instead of simply allowing the experience of it.
I’ve had a long relationship with names.
Of course, it started with my birth name.
Cheryl Milum.
That one comes with a whole lotta baggage.
Sometimes even the sound of Cheryl makes me cringe. Not because of the letters themselves... but because of the imprint behind them. The sound of a parental figure disappointed about something. Demanding something. Correcting something.
The nervous system remembers tones better than syllables.
My other parental figure had a simpler name for me.
Pumpkin.
Sweet on the surface.
Until I was old enough to understand tone.
Funny how names can spoil.
Then came high school.
Casper.
Followed by Lobster and Oompa-Loompas... courtesy of my pale skin and a regrettable encounter with Estée Lauder’s “tan in a bottle” …somewhere in the late 80s.
(Think Charlie and the Chocolate Factory friend’s.)
Then... my first official legal name change that I truly loved.
Cheryl Crow 1997.
