I recently legally changed my name, and that process led me to reflect on why it is that trans* people can (and should) expect to be able to change their names and have people respect that, while the vast majority of people go through life with their birth names unchanged, no matter how much they may dislike them. (In most places, of course, anyone can change their name for any reason, even just plain not liking it, and some people do, but I feel that most cis people don't, even if they dislike their first name and go by a nickname instead.)
I started to think about changing my name last summer, when I identified as agender. Sometime in July or August, it started to be unpleasant to introduce myself to people with my birth name. It was very clearly a "girl's name," so I felt like it caused people to assume I was female - or more likely, confirmed the assumption they'd already made based on my body (since most people seem to think that's the end-all arbiter of which gender someone is >.<).
So I started going by a different, kind of gender-ambiguous name in September (it's a male name in Finnish, but often assumed to be a female name in the States). But that unpleasant feeling persisted whenever I had to show my ID to a bank teller or nightclub bouncer, or hand my check card to a cashier, or fill out paperwork with my then legal name. It got to the point where I started doing things like saying, "Don't judge me," to a bouncer when I handed him my ID with my girly name on it while presenting masculinely.
This June, I was partly goaded into the name-change process by my girlfriend (risk-averse me had been planning to live under my new name for a whole year before legally changing it) but I'm glad she did because as of last week, the situations where I have to show or use my birth name are rapidly diminishing.
When I still do -- such as when I picked up a prescription under my old name last week -- it's now doubly painful, since I'm so close to almost never having to see or use that name again.
And yet, I have nothing against my birth name itself. For most of my life, it felt like me, and I liked it well enough. The fact that I was always having to tell people how to spell and pronounce it (even though it was only five letters long and didn't even have four consonants in a row like my last name does!) probably contributed to the formation of my stubborn, self-righteous character. (So it's fitting that for my new name, I picked another five-letter name that I'm still having to teach people how to spell and pronounce.) I even identify my old self with my old name, without any discomfort -- it wasn't awful to live under that name, as that person, just different and not wholly myself.
Along with wearing different clothing, styling my hair differently, and talking and walking differently, taking on a new name is and was part of the process of changing how I present myself to the outside world, so that it better reflects the person I am inside, rather than the person my parents or the rest of society expected me to be.
Addressing me by my preferred name affirms my identity. It's like saying, "I see you, I get you, I accept and support and love you for who you are. I believe in and support the way you see yourself."
Refusing to do so and using my old name instead is a way of rejecting my identity. It's like saying, "I don't like and can't accept this version of you. Go away. I want the old you back."
Obviously, bank tellers and store clerks may not even know that there are a new me and old me -- they're just going with what's on the card in front of them. But when they use that old name, along with the uncomfortable sense of being called the wrong gender, it also calls up the feeling of hurt and rejection that comes with people who do know choosing to use the old name.
Parents sometimes feel like they have a special right to a trans* person's old name, because they picked the name. I compare this to how parents view their children's careers. Of course, some parents are determined that their kids will be doctors and lawyers, no matter what the kids want. But our modern conception of parenthood tends more toward parents nurturing children's innate talents and encouraging them to choose the schooling and career path that best suits their desires and abilities. I feel like parents should view their children's genders and names the same way. Just like you can't tell by looking at a baby whether they'll be a surgeon or rock star when they grow up, so you also can't really know the kid's gender identity just by looking. That is something parents ought to be flexible with, not just while the child is growing up, but on into adulthood, since as my case shows, these things sometimes take decades to figure out.
Names are some of the most powerful words we have. Moreover, they're strongly tied to gender and identity. As such, they're one of the most powerful and meaningful markers of the "new," more comfortable and authentic identities that trans* people forge for themselves. It's about more than just the name. Using (or misusing) someone's name speaks volumes about how much you understand and care about that person, and what they're going through. For complete strangers, it's a mark of respect. For family and friends, it shows that you accept and love the person as they are, instead of resentfully clinging to what you wanted them to be.
If there's any magical quality to names, it's not when they're bestowed at birth, but when they're lived, authentically and to their fullest. And that's something to celebrate, not to try to blot out with a name that no longer fits.
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