What’s in a name?

            My name is Sally Ann Houston. My name is Salie Genesis Layor. My name is Salie Davis. My name is Sarah Royal. When I was young I wished my mother had called me Sarah. When I heard the country song, Skin, by Rascal Flats, I thought, “I would love to write about a character named Sarah Beth;  her last name would be “Strong”, Sarah B. Strong, meaning “Sarah, Be Strong.”

Whenever I meet a “Sarah”, I share with her how much I love her name. Sometimes she responds with a blushing smile that spreads until her eyes sparkle, her voice croons and her whole face glows at my story-telling. Sometimes her smile is nervous and infects her eyes, causing them to look away, her voice soon follows. Regardless, I can’t resist telling her how special she is. The name “Sarah” is regal and feminine. It is becoming, with a feeling of class like a wide-brimmed hat, pearls, a silk scarf, an ankle-long skirt, and a soft smile sipping herbal tea. Sarah in Hebrew means princess. This solidifies that Sarah is a royal name; therefore I can say that royalty runs in my family.

Generations of my family, on my mother’s side, are named Sarah or a derivative of Sarah so that it entwines my family tree like a rampant vine running throughout. I named my daughter Seraphia, after the highest order of angels. Maybe my granddaughter will be “Sarai”.

            When I was young I wished my mother had called me Sarah. At the time though, Sarah was not a popular name. My mother named me Sally which reminds me of a stereotyped female, in the weak and squeaky mouse-like sense, like the little girl on the Charlie Brown cartoon. I never liked that character, maybe because I thought she was whiney, or maybe just because her name was Sally. My mother could have named me Sadie.  My husband says that name makes him think about a Sadie Hawkins dance with trendsetting, forceful women in short skirts, grabbing their partners for an enthusiastic spin. To me Sadie feels overly masculine and less educated, like a frontierswoman in a handcrafted burlap skirt and bear skin coat, cutting wood with a double-bit ax in three feet of snow. I am glad I am not Sadie.

My mother named me Sally. At the sound of that name, even the reading of that name, I close my eyes in reflex with indrawn breath. My pulse quickens in preparation for a struggle. I push away panic, push away imagined pain; push away the needle of memory. I shake internally to shake away that name. I change the subject of my mind, pretending that name does not exist.

My mother named me Sally, my mother, whom I loved with such depth that my affection buried her inability to love. With eyes wide and voice uplifted I would say to her, “I love you” in such a way that those three words embraced the infinity of the universe and she would respond, flat-toned and unmoving, “Love does not exist” so that the vacuum of her words negated both time and space. My mother, whom I love, named me Sally.

            When I was 11 I asked everyone to call me Salie, pronounced SAY-lee. Scarcely anyone pronounces it correctly. I have never understood this, since the name Salie is a surname and rhymes with Sadie. Salie is neither feminine nor masculine, neither educated nor uneducated. Salie is creative. Salie fits me.
            I am Salie. I am creative, both as a writer and an artist. At the age of 19, my husband gifted to me my last name “Davis” in marriage. Before this though, I was someone else. We will come back to that in a moment. My husband, a wonderful man, thinks I am a work of art, though he has never specified romantic, impressionistic, realism, or abstract, when he looks at me with tilted head and puzzled lips, I think I must be cubist. Whichever way, he thinks I am wonderful as well. Marriage, however, is not always wonderful. Far from a work of art, it is a finger painting party with your hands tied behind your back. Some expect marriage to be a masterpiece from day one. I have been painting for more than 8,395 days. My artwork hasn’t made it beyond my refrigerator, yet it enhances my home and shows my love for the art of marriage and my love for art.

            In fact, my married name is Art.

            The spelling of my name creates a visual picture of me and my family. The “S” is a white swan, symbolizing me. The “A” is eggs, symbolizing my children. The “L” is the black swan, my husband, and compliment, like how opposites offer balance and create the whole. The “I” is a cultivated flower with the “E” being the leaf of the flower, symbolizing the domestic beauty of family. The “D” in my last name is the mother swan in a protective pose, prepared to fight. My children again are represented by the “A”, a white and a black egg. As a whole in compliment, their differences create balance, together they are one. The “V” is a wild grass, the influences of the outside world. Again the “I” is a flower and this time the “S” is the leaf.

            My name tells many stories through art and through poetry, such as in this imperfect Pantoum.

1) white bird, mother bird

2) a symbol through time

3) the young ones to nurture to their prime

4) black bird, father bird

            2) a symbol through time

5) the domestic flower grows a full bloom

6) with a green leaf beside

7) changed with time, mother bird, be on guard

8) alone your young lie exposed

            3) the young ones to nurture to their prime

9) a wild grass grows.

            4) black bird, father bird

            5) the domestic flower grows a full bloom

            6) with a green leaf beside

            7) changed with time, mother bird be on guard

10) hurry home black bird for

            8) alone your young lie exposed

            9) a wild grass grows

            10) hurry home black bird for

            1) white bird, mother bird.

            When I read this poem I feel the necessity to kiss my husband on the forehead and rub his ear, and bite the tip of his nose until he laughs and asks me what I want. Then I’ll just say “I love you” and kiss him deeply before he can speak so that he has to say it back with an embrace. I cannot imagine life absent his distinctive wit and sad wisdom. He adds substance to my story.  

            However, before I was Salie Davis, I was someone else. As I have said, my name tells many stories. When I was 16 I decided to legally change my name to Salie Genesis Layor, the middle name meaning, “coming into being”. In choosing a last name, however, my foster parents, being temporary stand-ins, wouldn’t allow me to take theirs. If they had, their affections wouldn’t have been so obviously temporary. So I started reading street signs. When I passed the Royal Hotel, I thought, “That could be my name, I am like royalty. I have worth”. I spelled Royal backward, because, you know, I didn’t want anyone to think I thought too highly of myself. I still loved the name Sarah and the name Royal but that name was too good for me. I did consider it as a pen name if ever I became a published writer. You see, I have always told stories. I had been writing poems and short memoirs since I was 9 years old. These creative creations, for the most part, have remained hidden, like the following memoir I wrote about my many names at the age of 17 with some current edits for space and clarity; the one called “All of me”.

I know a young girl named Sally. She is someone I learned to care for, because unable to care for herself, she had no one to care for her. She is not a pretty child, in the opinion of most. She is a frightened child. She feels very lost. Used to being blamed, they tell her she is dirty. She feels very ashamed. They tell her she is not worthy. They tell her she lies. She believes them. I know they are wrong. I believe her. I love her, yet she is still sad and lonely. She is far from faultless, but I still care. She does not believe me. I cannot blame her. Just like them, I have been unfair. I mistreated her. I ignored her. I was ashamed I knew her name. I would not believe her. I did not know her. Now I know she was not to blame.

I know a lady named Salie, strong like I wish to be. I love her too, but only as much as she will allow of me. She is also afraid and likewise alone, but she has control. She does not allow vulnerability. She is harder to get to know. She will not be hurt by what they say. They cannot hurt her anymore. She does not deny her emotions but watches closely the door. She has learned to be patient, and tolerant of pain. She has learned to cry, and not to cry. My only hope is that she finds an advantage. I know she will try.  I will try. She is willing to accept her past as it is, though she feels leery as if grasping a flame. Intent on healing, she struggles still, not quite sure who holds the blame.

I know a woman named Sarah. I have almost to whisper her name. I am afraid the soft winds that brought her to me will swiftly take her away. She is accordingly beautiful, all I hope to be, delicate and vulnerable, her spirit, free. A rebirth of innocence with gentle age behind her eyes, no longer afraid to be loved, her past she no longer denies. She knows how to trust, to trust with her heart. I know little of her, but we have a start. Beyond the pain and not afraid to feel, she looks with joy to the future. She’s not afraid to be real. I stand in awe of her, a being of soul. She is my hope for the future, my hope to be whole…

More than 25 years have passed since the writing of this poem and still, I cry when I read it. I must remind myself, “What’s in a name?” It is just a name. Isn’t it? ———- By Sarah Royal

(I wrote this essay 10 years ago, I am now 50. Sarah is alive and well. Five years ago, I realized I was Autistic. That realization helped me make sense of so much in my life. Now I am whole. The writings on Wopoli.com are raw. I would not be able to share them but for a half-century of self-discovery and growth. I hope that my words bring hope, encouragement, awareness, empathy, and understanding. )