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]

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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". 

What's In a Name? [Workshop Essay]

I went back to Horseheads (speaking of names...) this weekend to celebrate my mother's 50th birthday. As part of the reminiscing, "we're-all-getting-older" process, she pulled out our old year books. While she sat getting misty-eyed over the aging Equestrians, I thumbed through all the messages people had scrawled across the back pages. All the phone numbers I never called, all the promises of continuing friendships that never happened, and all the names of "frenemies" whose faces had slowly faded over the course of four years.

My favorite message lies in the cracked spine of my freshman year, from a senior I knew only through mutual friends and over-congested movie nights. Friendly, but not really a friend:

Ellen,

You, my dear, are a light in a very, very dark world. Don't ever change that.

~ A

I'd laughed the first time I'd read it; my name is derived from the Greek word meaning "light" (as in weight, not  what spews out of a lamp when you turn it on. But, for the sake of this piece, we can look at both meanings). At fifteen, the sentiment was nice, and extremely appreciated, but it was just there, I suppose. A beautiful coincidence. But then, over the next few years, I found myself hearing it over and over again. Classmates said I "shone". Teachers noted how I "illuminated" new ideas. And friends told me how the days seemed just a little bit more bearable when I was around. 

What if there was something more to behind being "light"? Could something as simple and random as my name have any impact on what made me me? Did names impact the outcome of others, or was this a phenomenon reserved only for "Ellen"s? 

All the baby name books in Barnes and Nobles (and Waldenbooks and Borders...) and all the websites told me the same thing. "Light". Sometimes it went on to explain further; airy, gentle, uplifting. Deeper research lead to personality profiles for all the "Ellen"s of the world. According to Kablarian's, having the name "Ellen" guarantees these traits (I have bolded those which I agree with/would apply to myself):

- A friendly, approachable, and generous demeanor

- Good-natured, though prone to being blunt and sarcastic

- Naturally talkative, finding it easy to meet new, varied people

- Sympathetic to the plight of others

- Very firm in ideas, though needs encouragement to actually act upon them

- Respond quickly to affection and praise

- Artistic and creative, primarily in the arenas of music (especially vocal performance), sewing, or interior decorating

- Struggle with emotions

- Prone to depression, liver ailments, and diseases effecting the bloodstream

Other than pretty much being told I'm dying of leukemia someday, the list didn't seem half-bad. What really astounded me was how incredibly accurate this analysis was. But there are thousands of "Ellen"s in the world (it's an old-fashioned name, so that might be dwindling); what the hell could make us all so similar? It couldn't have been a shared history. I only knew two other Ellen's growing up: my great-grandmother, born the only surviving daughter to Slovakian immigrant farmers in 1907 and a girl five years my senior, the middle between a boy and a girl. They were the products of happy marriages, while my parents were falling apart.

Then I started to wonder how I might have been different if my parents had gone with some of the other names they had considered. Would a "Grace" still care about the needs of others? Would a "Paisley" still have loved to sing until her throat went raw? And would one more "Mary" in the family (if my parents had gone with it, I would have been the 4th) still feel anxious in a crowded room?

I'd like to think that, if I happened to be anything other than "Ellen", I would still be Ellen; not the name, but the soul that lives within. It can't be my name that creates me, because I'm pretty sure I'm the only "Ellen" that used REC and El Orfanato to help study for her Spanish speaking exams. I'm probably the only "Ellen" that pounds birth control and Prozac each morning with a 12 ounce Red Bull. I'm the only "Ellen" who finds romance in a funeral home reception hall. Onward and onward, forever and ever, amen...

Being one of the universe's "lights" is just an added bonus, really.