To Bee, or Not To Bee--What's in a name?

I went to dinner by myself tonight which is actually something I like to do occasionally. Most of the time it's because I really want to eat something others don't or I don't want to be the "I can't eat that" party-pooper. But sometimes, I like to eat by myself because no one knows who I am. At dinner tonight, I felt a little triumphant because as I sat by myself, I knew I was trapped in a lack of conversation and the inability to get up from my seat. Though strange-sounding, I assure you it makes sense. When I eat, it's kind of an event. I get moments of sickitude (I like this better than sick as I don't always get sick, I just have an air of sick for a bit), and often have to get up and take a stroll to the ladies room for the sake of working my insides around a little. Sometimes I find I can't eat very much or that what I do eat is minimal. Today, I ate quite a bit and I couldn't take any of my standard strolls for stomach freedom. But part of what I really enjoyed was that nobody cared when I simply stared my tofu and scallops down, waiting for the moment I could attack. No one usually cares, but I care simply because I am aware there are people there to possibly care. Anonymity in a sea of people can be freeing.


So why did I feel so different in the one moment by myself? For that matter why did it matter if it happened surrounded by people? Alone, I am still just myself with my own limits. I would have stopped. I would have walked around. I would have eaten differently. Surrounded by people who wouldn't understand if I bolted for the nearest bathroom (nevermind the language barrier), I was forced to change into someone who could control themselves and who could eat what was in front of me (call it first world guilt). But more than that, I started to remember something I've thought of before. What's in a name?

A couple of weeks ago, when I wore my fake hair to school, one of my students told me it was incredibly strange because I looked like "Bee," which he said in a high squeaky voice, instead of "Bee," which he said in a deep, authoritative voice. I laughed and agreed. Though I had simply changed my hair, I was no longer just his teacher--I looked and felt like a different person. Even the name "Bee" is a different person. People often call me that here. In fact, it is the name I'll respond to first most days. It's different from Oglesbee or O or any other name. I rarely hear "April" said, and, when I do, it is often distracting and strange and thrilling all at the same time. Words, names, have power. They have the power to change us and transform us into something and someone else. I am a teacher and a student. I am a daughter and a friend. I am a responsible, serious person. I am a person who daydreams and longs have moments of spontaneity. These things are not entirely separate, but they are often compartmentalized. What would my students do if they saw me throwing myself on the couch in a moment of glee over a romantic moment in a drama? What would my mother say if she saw lecturing on the importance of organization? For that matter, can I look in the mirror and be all of these things at once? Can I reconcile the divisions of me? Is one better or more right?

I'm not sure of the answer. I'm inclined to say they're all me and they're all right. What's in a name? What's in a moment of self awareness or the lack of it? Can't I be BEE and bee? Can't I be April and Oglesbee? I think the danger is the power of the name. Like Voldemort in Harry Potter, we risk losing ourselves to the pieces we create in an effort to salvage and preserve separate chunks of who we are; we create horcruxes in names and labels. Like Voldemort, the sound of my name, April, can shock and astound (though only to my ears and usually not in stark terror).

This brings me back to my musings at dinner while contemplating Tofu as a trial worthy of Dumbledore's protection methods. To Bee, or not to Bee? In that moment, it didn't really matter. All of my pieces came together in one place and I was all of those things because I was none of those things. Whether I finished the food or whether I Linda Blair-ed it all over the grill, no one would ever remember ME, just some giant white woman who gave them a story to tell to their friends and a rather bad night of grill cleaning. And in taking away the power of the pieces and the people inside me, I became more powerful and more thoughtful. Sometimes I long to be just April. Sometimes I like being Bee. Today, I I think I'm comfortable in one skin with both of them.