A Philosophical Problem

It would have been kinder, perhaps, if my parents had named me Jane Doe. That, at least, would have passed under the radar of children and stuck in the memory of adults. As it was, I had to endure nicknames like “Christy Cruncher” in grammar school, and as an adult, I’ve learned to respond when people call me Christine, Christina, Crystal, Kristen, or Kirsten—if they remember the gist of it.

My name never fit me. A blonde in a pink mini skirt with portable Chihuahua looks like a Britney. An elderly bridge club bitty with blue hair looks like a Harriet. An Aryan twelve year old with a billy club looks like a Damian. I have no idea what a Christy looks like, and as far as I can tell, we don’t look like anything. I lack the soccer-mom wholesomeness of Canadian politician Christy Clark, or the grunge sexuality of porn star Christy Canyon. I have nothing in common with professional female wrestler Christy Hemme, or all-Ireland hurling champion Christy Ring. And if I looked anything like New York Giant’s pitcher Christy Mathewson, seppuku would be my only honorable option.

Native American’s had the right idea. Children got a name at birth, which they kept until they came of age. Then they chose a new name for themselves that reflected the person they had become as an adult. Granted, a name like “Standing Horse” would not have gone over well in school, but it beats the current system, where our parents slap us with whatever strikes their fancy, and we’re stuck with it until we become a Hollywood actor or a pope. It’s that sort of draconian patriarchal anthroponymy, that forces me to live in a world where I share a name with the Christy awards, which annually “recognize excellence in Christian fiction.” My roommate never lets me hear the end of it. It’s not fair, it’s not right, and I shouldn’t have to put up with it. I’m giving serious thought to trademarking my name and suing. If Dolly Parton can trademark her boobs, I can put an end to the Christy awards.

It makes me feel sorry for pets, who can’t protest the hideous names their owners inflict on them, and I’m one of the worst offenders. I’ve owned parrots named Coco and Muffin, when I should have bought a box of chocolates and been done with it. That was years ago, but last week I relapsed into old habits when I walked into Petco with a fishbowl and declared to the clerks that I intended to fill it with fish. I bought two pudgy specimens, which at this moment are swimming accusingly in my direction because I named them Gollum and Sméagol. It made sense initially. Like their namesake(s), goldfish are cold, slimy, good swimmers, and will eat other fish if given the chance. That, and I can now sing the Gollum fish song whenever I feed them. ( “Catch a fish / a juicy fish / so juicy sweeeeeeeet!” ) Shortly after I released them into the aquarium, however, I started to question my logic. For the next two hours, Sméagol circled the bowl with Gollum in hot pursuit, each nipping at the other fish’s billowy tail.

Oh god oh god. What if this was my fault? Was Sméagol doomed to perpetual torment from his darker companion? Was Gollum about to conspire with the spiders in my apartment so he could steal my jewelry? I should have gone with my first instinct to name them Buddha and Lord Ganesh, or at least the innocuous Ariel and Garamond.

Then I got worried. What if I do look like a Christy? I could be on the verge of turning to the porn industry, or Christian fiction, or—God help me—Canadian politics. What if, by being named Christy, I’m doomed to become a Christy? Now that I think about it, I do have this impulse to pick up hurling.