My Own Real Name

My Own Real Name:  15 October 2022

The inestimable Boo Boo Boobaline has ended her time as a cat on this planet. So began my friend Sarah’s surprisingly evocative Facebook post. Boo Boo had shared more than half of Sarah’s life, and doesn’t that always give us pause, to reflect on the loss of such depth of knowledge, that depth of being known?

I find this an uncommon, extraordinary, dangerous gift: to be known. My tendency is to disappear, to redirect, to protect the tender truth of me. Honestly it’s not too difficult. As the journalist Sidney J. Harris said, “Most people are mirrors, reflecting the moods and emotions of the times.” But I also long for it: the sacred, honest, eloquent gaze. Perversely, the risk most often feels too great. Far easier to return the doting gaze of a beloved animal than that of an articulate human. Words can cut too deep, and animals do not deceive.

[Boo Boo] went on her own terms, in peace and surrounded by love. I held her last breath in my hands. We called her Boo Boo, but she had her own real name that she called herself. I don't know the sound of that name, but I know the feeling of it and I will feel the feeling of her name every time I think of her for the rest of my life. What a gift that is. What a miracle death is, just like life.

This post has echoed through my week, not just for the love and the eloquence. All week I have wondered, what is my own real name? With apologies to Julie Andrews, the name I call myself is not ‘me’. I think it must be the name that God whispered into my ear at birth, and my whole life has been an attempt to hear it again. Sometimes I have known the feel of it chiming inside me, when the veil between the worlds is mist-thin, and I know that I know. Twice or thrice since she died, I’ve heard my mother call my name—it’s a sweet, fleeting stab in the heart. Though I love the name Julia, it feels but one facet of some larger mystery, glimpsed through a glass darkly.

And maybe that is why we cannot utter God’s name. Not because we’re forbidden, but because it’s impossible. Not piety, mere inability. The mystery is too great. I imagine God saying, “look, darling, it’s complicated and not really pertinent, so how about just call me Daddy?” Accept and try to offer back the gaze of unconditional love.

By the time you read this, I will be joyfully celebrating the wedding of my first cousin once removed by marriage. Again, complicated and not really pertinent. Let’s call her Grace, for she is. And what are weddings but the pledge to know and be known at your deepest self? A pledge to seek and honor your spouse’s own true name.

The wedding is in New Orleans, a solid 619 miles away. When we committed to come, I planned a route that would land us in Montgomery on Wednesday night. (We took the kids out of school midday Wednesday to begin the adventure. Ungrateful wretches complained about that half day. Only two and a half days missed. I cannot recall ever being taken out of school for *anything*.)

We began Thursday morning at the amazing Barbara Gail’s Breakfast Grill and showed up well fortified for our 9:00 timed ticket at The Legacy Museum. The Legacy Museum provides a comprehensive history of the United States with a focus on the legacy of slavery. It’s all the truth that, according to our Legislature, is not fit to print in South Carolina, especially the fact that 40% of enslaved Africans (more than 193,000) entered the United States through our gracious port of Charleston. Kudos to Montgomery for tackling difficult truths and trusting that only by acknowledging our past will there be any hope that we learn from it.

Here's the complete Sidney Harris quotation: “Most people are mirrors, reflecting the moods and emotions of the times; few are windows, bringing light to bear on the dark corners where troubles fester. The whole purpose of education is to turn mirrors into windows”

I’m attempting to hone my children into windows. I’m attempting to become one myself.

Last month Mark, Emma and I attended the Community Remembrance Project’s Soil Collection ceremony for Robert Williams, one of four known black men lynched in Greenville County. (There will be one for Ira Johnson on October 22nd. Look for one in your county.) It was an honor to participate in adding soil to the two jars bearing his name, and we were especially interested to visit the National Memorial for Peace and Justice, which will display one of the two jars. The other will permanently reside in the Upcountry History Museum.

The Memorial is a grand, sober, wondrous, disturbing, beautiful, jarring, inspiring site. The structure at the center is constructed of over 800 Corten steel monuments, one for each county in the United States where a racial terror lynching took place. The names of the lynching victims are engraved on the columns. 800 counties. 4,000 victims.

I wish I could describe for you the impact of the Memorial, but its impact, its true name, is deeper than words. I implore you to go. If you do, toward the end you’ll encounter the sound of falling water, flowing over a wall of rough planks. It’s a balm upon the ears, and after the immense reckoning of walking amongst the steel monuments, a generous reminder of hope, ever flowing, ever cleansing. It is holy water, and I was grateful that the docent said yes when Jack and Emma asked whether they could touch it. We all stood, reverent, receiving the blessing. We felt the sacred. I taught them how to cross themselves—good ignorant Presbyterians that they are. For me, at least, the water chimed my true name. I felt God’s loving gaze.

We know 4,000 names. We know there are others unnamed. We bear witness, and we are laid bare, open to the gaze of the One who knows, who rejoices, in each creature’s one true name. May we endeavor to become windows, shining light into dark corners, amplifying life’s joys, and illuminating our deepest search for self.