A Lesson in Personal Nomenclature or The Ways That Ellen is Me [Revised Essay]

Ellen: An English variation of the Greek Helen, meaning "bright; a shining light" [according to one of the twenty-something name books I own]

---

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". 

Second Hand Clothes, First Hand Life

I'm no stranger to the outdated aisles of the Goodwill (the G Dubs) or the Salvation Army (SA Boutique, Sally's, Salvo...), to blue-ticket sales and buy one-get one deals. Every government-funded welfare child is familiar with the scent of mothballs, like stale sweat in an aged room. The trepidation when you pull into the parking lot, the quick glances from left to right, making sure no one you know sees you go in. That frantic search for American Eagle and Gap needles in the JNCO and Bugle Boy haystack.

Back then, I wore those clothes with shame and resentment. My friends had the entire mall to find their personal style in. Jessica was a Tommy Girl, prim and preppy, while Anna was the sporty Aeropostale girl-next-door. Even Roxie, as ill-allotted as her family's money was, was able to come out of the Arnot as a Hot Topic mall goth. But who was I? The combined effort of people I'd never met. People who pitied little charity cases like me.

Today, I walked to class in a pale blue Victoria's Secret hoodie I purchased for $5 at Goodwill. The cuffs are stained from numerous washings and the screen-printed lettering along the front is beginning to peel. It's a few seasons old and while I could easily afford a new one, I'm content with this one. I learned long ago that I am not my clothing, but my clothing becomes me. Frankly, the idea that my clothing was worn by someone else doesn't frighten me like it used to. This sweatshirt is not perfect, but it's only because it was loved. The previous owner could have just tossed it out, but they chose to share the love instead.

My clothing becomes me and we both get a fresh start.

I Was a Teenaged (and then some) Zombie.

I wake up as Ellen, knowing that today is the day it ends. My mind will leave me, my senses will numb, and by night's fall, I will be nothing but a snarling, drooling, lurching monster. I will never again hear my mother's voice and her prayers will do me no good. I'll never feel the soft fur of the calves in the field or smell their sweet breath. Today is the day I will die. Figuratively, of course.

With each layer of makeup, I become more and more detached. With the white base, I become more sluggish, movements slow and labored. The grey around my eyes leaves me feeling as gaunt as I become, hollowing my cheeks and cracking my hands. Green at my temples bring the decay, my body falling apart. Teeth grime and cough syrup-tasting blood and my transformation is done. Close my eyes. Open up. I'm not myself anymore.

I'm out of the cab and amongst my people. Glazed eyes take in the tattered clothes and crumbling bodies and the chorus of undead moans welcomes my arrival. One of us! One of us! Gooble gobble! Gooble gobble! Us freaks belong together.

And maybe it's my mind getting too deep into a "roll", but I can't out shuffle the idea of being dead. I'm back with the demons of my adolescence, a time where the black-tar vomit of too many pain pills was a friend and the idea of my heart giving out under too much fear seemed like a wonderful escape. And how I'm not that girl anymore.

But everyone relapses (which is a term I hate, because it makes it sound like I willing became an anxious wreck again) or just has a bad day. The brain hiccups, the serotonin levels dip just a little and things get a messy again. These are the days where I immerse myself in the walking dead, the people who I once envied. And, in some ways, the people I once was.

If more people did this - surrendered the need for control for one moment and just acted silly - would their be as many muzzles pressed against temples? How much skin would remain intact and how many pills would go unswallowed? The power of pretend is unfathomable to me at times, but it's there.

This play time is far from some FDA approved treatment. But when I wipe away the makeup and see my face once more, it works. I survived. That's enough.

The Weight of the World and Other Podiatric Burdens

Feet are not supposed to be pretty and mine are no exception. 

They are long and wide, lacking the daintiness which is considered feminine and beautiful on someone my height. My toes match, long and stubby all at once, like carrot sticks or the roots from potatoes. The baby toe on my right foot (the tattooed one, not your right) doesn't quite reach the ground, permanently tangled from a break a few years ago. The nails are dirty, visible even with the polish. When they're stripped, the surface always looks a little ruddy, permanently stained by years of lacquer. The heels are cracked, the balls are calloused, and the arches are bruised. They are scarred and marred and bruised and broken.

I have tried to make them beautiful. I have used lotions and pumice stones and keep the nails as trimmed and polished as I possibly can. I have spent hours in The Chair, hobbling away with a masterpiece on my swollen flesh. The tattoo helped, but, in the end, it still has the misfortune of being on the hideous canvas that is a foot.

Feet are not supposed to be pretty.  They are our support system and our guide, the part of us that is the most physically connected to our experiences. 


My feet are my two-part autobiographies.


The peeling skin tells of the pebbled paths I wander at night, of Alumni Walk during my first week on campus. How the dewy grass licked my toes and kissed my ankles and helped me find my way home. The scars sing the water's melody, of the crayfish that lurk beneath Chemung County creeks. The slick rocks send me splashing, catching my feet and leaving their marks behind. The arches hold bruises so my face and pride wouldn't have to, pounding pavement and initiating evacuations. Each purple and green tell the world how I survived and of how he'll never catch me.  


And my ship, the sails flapping in the wind, keeps the story moving along.