What’s In A Name Anyway?

By Regina Landor

Last fall I joined the choir of the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Rockville near my home in Maryland. I love singing with others, it lifts me, and it allows me to spend an hour and a half once a week focusing on nothing but music.

Recently during our 10 minute break, a fellow alto scooched next to me and said in a chipper, curious tone, “So, tell me about the book you’re writing.” I had mentioned to her the previous week that I was writing a book, but didn’t say more. She was looking at me with a broad smile and an inquisitive expression. Maybe she thought I was writing a romance novel. Or a mystery?

“Well,” I said, turning to her, but then my words got stuck in my throat and I covered my face with my hands.

Here was an opportunity to express myself about my book verbally. I want to be able to talk about what I’m writing. So I put my hands in my lap, turned to her and said, “I’m writing a book about our family’s time overseas with the Foreign Service.”

“Oh! It’s a memoir,” she said, interested.

“Yes. It’s also about our children. My husband and I raised our boys overseas.” Two others sitting nearby turned to listen. I took a deep breath. “Our younger son suffered from depression and when we moved back to the U.S. our older son had a mental health breakdown.”

My listeners shifted their bodies even closer to me, their faces showed concern, and I could tell they wanted to hear more. But my words felt heavy in the air, thick with a mother’s betrayal. My heart hurt suddenly. Then our break was over. I pushed the conversation aside from my mind and turned back to my sheet music. 

At the end of our rehearsal, the woman who inquired about my book caught up to me as we were exiting the building.

“I’m so sorry if I put you on the spot,” she exclaimed, putting her hand on my arm.

“Oh no. Not at all. I need to practice my elevator speech,” I said, and smiled at her in return.

“Are you planning on taking it on the road?” she asked.

I cringed a little at her question. Taking it on the road sounds a bit like a circus. Would I be performing my sons’ mental health problems in a three-ring act? How much am I willing to betray him? Them? I have two sons who’ve suffered. I paused at her question. Then before I answered, she asked me another one.

“You’re changing their names in the book, right?”

“I—” I was going to say, “don’t know.” But I stopped myself. “Oh yeah,” I said. As if I’d never considered doing otherwise.

“Because they have their whole lives ahead of them,” she reminded me.

Did I need reminding? Maybe I did.

I reached my car and she told me she has a relative who’s published some books and please let her know if she can put me in touch with her. She was warm. We said goodnight.

On my drive home I thought to myself, It’s what I have to do, isn’t it? I have to change their names. Even though my younger son has given me his full permission to write about him, my older son is only half on-board. He has said “I don’t care what you write about,” but he also doesn’t want to talk about it. I have told myself I am writing about an experience that traumatized me, and it’s OK to do so. But there’s a part of me that still feels guilty. Perhaps changing their names will also change how I feel.

I love my boys’ names. Inserting other names into my story seems foreign. Or fictitious. I wonder how seeing names that are not my sons’ names will separate me from the reality of my story. It scares me to distance myself in such a way.

But part of my story is about that very topic—trying to distance myself from them so they can land on their own two feet. So I can land on mine. I don’t remember the umbilical cords being cut, but I do remember when my older son was about nine years old and he told me he wasn’t going to call me “Mommy” anymore. I was a little bit sad that I would just be “Mom,” but I respected his decision and understood it. 

In some ways, writing a book about my sons is like giving birth all over again. The more I work at it, the more I can see a day when it will be complete. When my job will be over. When it will fall away and live on its own out in the world and I will no longer need to nurture it.

I researched Hebrew boy names, like I did 18 and 19 years ago. As a way to honor my father, who was Jewish, I wanted my children to have Jewish names.

I found two I like very much, each with the same amount of syllables as my children’s real names. The names won’t look the same on the page, but I think I can grow to love them anyway.
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Regina Landor is writing a book with the working title Own Two Feet. She and her husband raised their boys in Serbia, Bangladesh, and Ethiopia. She currently teaches preschool in Maryland and lives with her husband, cat, and 18 & 19-year-old sons who are all managing their lives on their own. Except for the cat.