What’s In a Name

Marigold Shoemaker hated her name. She had always hated her name.

Some say that our name, beyond its objective purpose, encompasses what and who each of us is. Its essence is at the very heart of our existence. Names are powerful. When one speaks your name to you, you are recognized. You exist and are remembered. Marigold Shoemaker did not want to remembered with that name, her name.

People would tell Marigold silly stuff, like the idea that our names, both in the physical and virtual worlds, are immortal and will outlast each and every one of us. That our name is and will always be the everlasting testament of who you are. “Bullshit,” says Marigold Shoemaker. “I’m not going down with this ship.”

Freud was well aware of the importance of names and felt that the attitude of “compulsive-obsessional and other neurotics” toward their own names imposed numerous and serious inhibitions upon them.” He further noted that “in the view of primitive man one of the most important parts of a person is his name.”

So Shakespeare was right to ask what’s in a name. But he added “that which we call by a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Marigolds are not roses. They don’t smell sweet, and the point of a name is not that it can be any other name. Names matter. Every time we hear someone’s name, we make a number of assumptions about that person. Patty versus Patricia. Charles versus Chip. And Marigold Shoemaker was certain that all of the assumptions about her, based only upon her unfortunate name, were wrong.

What the heck does “Marigold” mean anyway, other than being the name of a bright orange flower, she wondered? A bit of Googling revealed that as a woman’s name “Marigold” was once found almost exclusively in English novels and aristocratic nurseries. People felt it had a sunny, golden feel. And, it was the symbol of the Virgin

Mary. “Ha!” says Marigold. “I am not sunny, I wasn’t raised in an aristocratic nursery, and I’m certainly not the Virgin Mary!”

Marigold would instead describe herself as serious. Focused. An intellectual who classified herself as a “socialist feminist.” And what socialist feminist in her right mind would volunteer to be called Marigold Shoemaker? She didn’t even make shoes!

She once tried to think of a last name that would acknowledge the line of women in her heritage, a feminist last name, but she soon realized that, upon their birth, all her female ancestors were assigned last names that were drawn exclusively from the male line. Maybe a hyphen here and there. But mostly, they were JohnSON or AnderSON or, in her case, Shoemaker. Upon marriage, the woman would be assigned another male last name from her husband’s male lineage.

How could she create a female name?

Her mother’s first name was Frances. If Marigold followed the example of last names that started with a man’s first name and ended in “son,” what could she do for her mother? Francesdaughter? Imagine explaining that to your first grade teacher, or to the DMV, or… well, basically anyone. Imagine just trying to spell it to that person at the end of a phone tree, answering your call in New Delhi.

Perhaps the work of her mother? She’d been a teacher. Marigold Mindmaker? yikes.

Her mother had also been a painter. Marigold Artmaker? maybe.

Clearly a last name has a historical lineage. It signifies what tribe you come from, the language you spoke, your nationality. If effectively describes us in ways we may not fully understand or choose to realize. And really, it signifies PATRIARCHY. Marigold made a note to work on that.

Meanwhile, what’s with that FIRST name? Sunny? no. Virgin? definitely not. Aristocratic? nope. Maybe she could create a single, strong, unisex handle. She once tried to get people to call her Blair. It didn’t stick. Friends tried, but it was clear they hated it. Names matter. We know, we know…

But Marigold? What in the world was her mother thinking?

So, she asked her mother where the name Marigold came from.

Marigold’s mother told her a story from her own childhood. When her mother started the story, Marigold thought there might have a story about the flower her mother had loved, or worse, about a dog or cat she’d had that was named Marigold. “Yeah, I’m about to find out I’m named after a dog.”

But instead, her mother told her about an afternoon she’d spent at the small public pool in Monroe City, Missouri when she was six years old. She was playing with her dolls and suddenly looked up at her own mother and said “When I grow up, I’m going to have a little girl and I’m going to name her Marigold!”

“Oh my god,” Marigold shouted. “I was named by a six-year old???” Okay, it wasn’t a dog, but it was still weird. She had a name she hated that had nothing to do with who she was. It was an assignment from a six-year old based on nothing.

Marigold — named by her six year old mother.
Shoemaker — the patriarchal lineage passed through her father.

What’s in a name? Sometimes, EVERYTHING!

A true story, by Lee Marysgirl