Ellen: An English variation of the Greek Helen, meaning "bright; a shining light" [according to one of the twenty-something name books I own]
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The only reason I was named "Ellen" was because my great-grandmother had a stroke 30 weeks into my mother's pregnancy. She teetered between this world and whatever comes next for another six weeks, when I made my early arrival. My parents spent those weeks agonizing and stressing and hen those gender-defining words pierced the air, it just felt right. If she died, at least they would have one more "Ellen" around.
That bitch (and I mean that in the most affectionate way possible) stuck around until I was 17. I'm pretty sure she did that on purpose.
My name was an accident, a rushed decision that seemed like the right one at the time. If my grandmother had been healthy, who would I have been? Grace, Paisley, and Mary had all been in the running, all had just as much of a chance of making it on those cute little Winnie The Pooh birth announcements. But I don't know if I believe in accidents.
"Ellen, your smile is just illuminating...."
"Mrs. Hill, your daughter is just aglow with new ideas...."
"You, my dear, are a light in a very, very dark world. Don't ever change that..."
No, that can't be an accident... There has to be something more, something much deeper than the seemingly random happenstance that is a name. All the books I've collected over the years tell me the same thing. "Light". Sometimes "airy", often "uplifting". One even called me "gentle". I don't know if I'd go that far, but whatever. Some websites went into huge analyses of the definition of an "Ellen". But like every word, the meaning is nothing without context. So where do I become an "Ellen"?
I was Ellen when I was eight and my brother's friend woke me up in the middle of the night. He was four and he'd gotten sick in the bathroom. I wiped his tears, quite literally gave him the shirt off of my back, and tucked him back into bed.
When I was ten and my father was cuffed and taken away, I was Ellen, too. Not because of how, even then, I could feel the cold burn of sorrow seep into my veins, but because of how my heart ached for my brothers. They needed me.
And when I sing at the top of my lungs, til my throat goes raw, I'm Ellen. With my eyes closed, heart racing, and applause in my ears (real, I-mean-it applause), I become myself.
And it is in these moments that I start to think that it is not a matter of becoming an "Ellen", but becoming Ellen. More than a name, but the heart that beats way too fast inside this tiny chest. I'd like to think that "Grace" would have still studied for Spanish exams by watching foreign horror movies. "Paisley" would have totally knocked back her Prozac with a Red Bull. And the funeral director's son would have still fallen ass-over-tea kettle with "Mary".
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