What's In A Name?

For the first fifteen years of my life my maternal grandmother (my mom's mom) refused to call me by my first name, Renetta. She called me by a nickname that had nothing to do with my first name and there are still some very old friends and a few family members left on my mother's side that still call me by that nickname.

Renetta... I like my first name. I have never wanted to be one of the more common names people often name their children. Look at my picture. Do I look like a Susan?

Now my last name, I wanted to change my last name. I have heard just about every Corn-y joke there is. I wished it was more identifiable as Native. I wished I had gotten a cool Native last name like Eaglefeather or Flyingeagle. I spent most of my sixth grade year putting another word down as my last name on my papers because I was tired of my corny last name and all the dull corny jokes.

But I finally accepted it. Or rather I've accepted that I'm stuck with it because my father has never claimed me. And since I don't ever expect to marry, it seems I am stuck with it for eternity.

Renetta... I never wanted a new first name. I've always been comfortable with my first name. It is often mispronounced by people who have never heard it before. But that doesn't bother me. I know it's not a common name. But it's not a new name either.

But I was hurt that my maternal grandmother wouldn't call me by it. Her reason? She believed it was a nigger name.

My maternal grandmother was raised to think of herself as white even though that's not true. Her father was German, but her mother was Native. Except we don't know what tribe she was from. It was not discussed. He taught my grandmother and her siblings that he was white so they were white and what there mother was didn't matter.

I was one of those nosy kids who had to know everything. I never just accepted things. I always questioned them. I know it was something that the adults on my mother's side of the family found annoying or at least the ones that would allow me to be around. Because most of my mother's side of the family wouldn't have anything to do with me and my brother. They called us Sheila's Nigger Kids. And no they didn't wait for us to be out of the room. They didn't hesitate to say exactly how they felt about us right in front of us because in their eyes we weren't entirely human so our feelings weren't real and didn't matter.

I'm sure it isn't hard to imagine what this did to my self esteem. I valued myself very little when I was young. For a long time I was desperate for someone to love me despite the fact I didn't deserve to be loved because I was interracial. My father is African and Native American. But in the world I was being raised in that African part made me worthless. Sometimes those feelings of worthlessness still haunt me.

As a result I got pregnant young, very young. I'm not quite a whole sixteen years older than my son. I turned sixteen a month after he was born. I never once considered having an abortion, but my mother would have taken me for one if I had said that's what I wanted. And I didn't consider adoption an option either. I had no guarantee that someone would love my not so white baby as much as I would. Plus, I needed him.

I had finally found purpose in my life. I had a reason to live. I had someone to live for because I had trouble living for myself. I may not have loved myself properly, but I loved this baby I was having. I was going to do everything within my power to do my best to be the best mother I could possibly be for that baby. But that baby needed a name.

I knew from my experience with my own name that names are very important. I spent hours pouring through baby name books because I didn't know the sex of my unborn child. I needed a name for a girl in case I had a girl and a name for a boy in case I had a boy. And while going through the girl names I found my own name. There in black print on the off-white paper was my name. And according to the info provided for it, it was a German name.

I was happy and pleased to share with my maternal grandmother that it was okay to call me by my name because "Look Grandma. See??? It's not a nigger name at all. Renetta is a German name." My grandmother never called me by her nickname for me again.

I remember the look on her face when I shared happy and excited that my name wasn't bad like she thought. I know she realized at that moment that she had hurt me. And I know she never meant to hurt me. I know she loved me. But she wasn't the kind of woman to admit she had made that kind of mistake and had been wrong. So she said instead, that I had become a woman. I was having children of my own. And I was too grown up for that baby nickname.

I have learned more about my name since then. And while never a popular name it has been used widely across Europe. Its root is Latin and means "reborn." Yet the question, "What's in a name?" is one that haunts me.

I know that if my grandmother believed what she did about my first name that she's not the only one. And your name affects your whole life. People have perceptions about certain names. People expect anyone named Marilyn will be a beautiful blond woman. Certain names can make it easier to get a job. Make is more likely you'll get a job interview.

I wonder how many times I have been dismissed and didn't even get an interview because of my name and the perception someone has of it. I wonder how many times my resume was tossed aside because my name was at the top. I wonder how many negative thoughts ran through someone's head about me when they heard my name for the first time.

I've had people state shocked after getting to know me "wow, you're a hard worker." All I can think is, why wouldn't I be a hard worker?

I don't know exactly what's happening in other people's heads except that I am getting judged without the opportunity to prove myself, without attempting to get to know me. And I know I'm not the only one this is happening to. So if you're someone who thinks negative thoughts when you see or hear a rare or unusual name, you have something you need to work on. Because you just might be passing on someone who would be the best, best friend you ever had, would make an excellent employee, or who might be the love of your life and you're throwing away your one chance at Happily Ever After. And why? Because their name sounds funny or strange to you. Sounds really immature to me.

But hey, what do I know? I'm just Renetta. ;)