Summer thunder rumbled in the clouds above my apartment, July 2020. I packed my belongings to move into my beloved’s home. I picked up a small porcelain shoe and memories sloshed out. As a millennial, I turned to the trusted pandemic-proof source of human connection, social media. I snapped a photo of the shoe and let my words snap a shot of my memories. I tap my way to the UNTAMED Book Club on Facebook and shared my snapshots with the incredible Cheetah masses assembled there.
(Language that may be confusing to those who have not read, “Untamed,” by Glennon Doyle:
Cheetah ~ a metaphor used by Glennon and her fans to describe and represent a woman who is shedding the limits and memos issued in her social conditioning from the patriarchy and grasping the courage to live her authentic, powerful, self.
tamed ~ referencing those who live in the societal cages of the patriarchy comfortably.
Knowing ~ the voice of one’s intuition, true-self, connection to Divinity, trusted and trustworthy aspect, that we each carry beneath the social scripts we are conditioned to internalize and uphold. )
I share the message of that post here and now as my introduction on Medium.com
As you can see, this shoe says, Debbie, and, as you can also see, that is not my name.
My full and only name, legal or otherwise, has always been Laxmi Devi Woodham. (Lock-shmee Day-vee, is how it sounds)
🕉
Laxmi, or Lakshmi, is the Hindu Goddess of wealth and good luck. Devi means I am her humble servant.
I am white and so are my parents. Yes, that is a weird sentence you just read, but, because, my name is Indian, I have been asked if my parents are too. I am white with blue eyes and freckles.
Does bigotry eat logic for breakfast?
My name came from my parents and is Indian as they have dedicated their entire lives to maintaining a lifestyle their Guru prized. I inherited my name, but I cannot stop any who wish to see it as appropriated.
The point is, my extremely tamed, American dream success story, grandparents, had no idea what to make of my parents’ name for me. I believe the conversation on the phone went something like this:
Dad: Hi Mom, you’re a officially a grandma to a beautiful baby girl!
Marnie (she never wanted to be called “Grandma”): Wonderful news, honey! What is her name?
*Dad says my first name*
Marnie: What was that, sweetie?
*Dad repeats name slower*
Marnie: What is her middle name, dear?
Dad: Devi
Marnie: How do you spell that?
Dad: D-E-V-I
*Marnie writes D-E-B-I*
~~~
Some time later, my parents get this shoe mailed to them with the name Debbie Woodham and my birthdate on it. I suppose correcting my grandparents on my name was deemed too ungrateful. Just the name of their first grandchild, no big deal, right?
And this small misunderstanding, in a minefield of cultural, generational, and religious friction that were my family holidays, meant that I was called Debbie, by Marnie (my grandma) until one fateful day at the Albuquerque Zoo/Aquarium/Botanical Gardens.
I was about 12 or 13, and I remember puberty hormones frothed at feeling rushed, repeatedly, throughout the day. Likely, my immaturity meant that the exhibits and displays that made my sister happy seemed to drag on, and the parts I liked flew by way too fast for my taste.
I remember being in the wide open and sunny area just beyond the ticket collection office. Families scattered between me and my grandmother and sister. My flip-flop tangled painfully and I called out so they wouldn’t leave me.
My grandma turned, her colorful parasol keeping the harsh sun off her face and waited for me. My sister turned too and scowled.
I was holding too much stuff (items have long been a distraction and source of comfort for me in the face of confusing family exchanges and expectations) a camera, glasses case, and likely some impractically small bohemian bag with too many treasures in too many pockets to keep track of.
My water bottle clattered to the ground loudly. Many eyes turned to glare at me as I awkwardly balanced on one sturdy flip-flop foot, frantically wiggling the other foot about like some crazed hokey-pokey of one.
Mortification levels previously unknown throbbed in my pubescent psyche and I wished I could evaporate into the cloudless desert sky then and there.
An adorable girl in neon pink and two black braids that shone like snakes in the sun, picked up my water bottle and handed it back to me with dutiful and cautious eyes. I took it with more shame than gratitude.
I hope I smiled at her. I suspect I bared my momentarily scowling soul at her instead.
I honed my gaze onto my pesky and uncooperative flip-flop and willed it onto my foot with all my might. Success occurred with absolutely no celebration, and I marched a down-trodden and yet frustrated march through the crowds to meet Marnie and my sister.
I remember my flip-flop toes finally reaching the shade of Marnie’s parasol. I hadn’t looked at their faces once in my whole march of shame, but I could feel disapproval radiate out like heat off pavement.
Marnie let loose a sigh that hit my ears and my psyche searched for the will to steel itself for continued onslaught of shame. It found none.
“Debbie, sweetie, if you -”
“That is NOT MY NAME!” I say, more bluntly and forcefully than I have ever expressed myself to my grandma before. She might say I yelled.
I freeze.
She freezes.
My sister freezes.
I let the silence land a beat and let my Knowing speak, possibly the first time, aloud.
“My name is LAXMI! I know it is hard to say, but my name isn’t Debbie and I don’t like being called that.”
I am shaking with what I just said, and also amazed that I feel relief without screaming or losing my temper.
Time remains frozen for a beat or three after I stop talking, and my grandma just says, “Alright sweetie, let’s just go to the car.”
Every step on the hot summer pavement made a little thwack between my blue flip-flops and the rest of the world. Shame and mortification swirled inside, but, as I thwacked my footsteps a little louder, a smile of quiet defiance remained tucked above my chin.
I was now forever the girl who declared her name to the world, and, to my surprise most of all, the world didn’t hush me.
