“What’s your name?” is one of the simplest yet equally complicated questions to answer. Some start with a brief spiel on their name’s origin, some spell out its letters, some sigh expectantly knowing others will butcher it completely, and some declare it with pride. Names are our most potent means of outward expression, encompassing our family, culture, and character all in one. It is through names that we identify with ourselves and those around us, which is why they inherently carry so much complexity, intimacy, and history.
This symbolism appears frequently in Toni Morrison’s “Song of Solomon,” one of the readings in Ms. Ueda’s Redeeming the Past senior elective English course. Making my way through Morrison’s novel, I found its emphasis on names evokes Jhumpa Lahiri’s “The Namesake,” which I am reading concurrently. In these both novels, the protagonists’ names—Milkman, or Macon Dead, and Gogol Ganguli—are central to their evolving selfhood. Growing up with a similarly unconventional name that originates from outside my Turkish culture, Diba, I realize how it has molded my relationship with the world around me. So, as we navigate our own coming-of-age stories, to what extent do names help us fit into our communities?
Set in an African-American community in Michigan, “Song of Solomon” centers around Macon “Milkman” Dead III and his family. Through Milkman’s interactions, the novel explores themes of race, gender, power, and identity within the 20th century Black experience. Following the
title, which references a biblical book of the same name, each member of the Dead family is named after a figure in the Bible: Pilate, Hagar, Corinthians, Magdalena, Reba … In the past, their elders decided on these names arbitrarily by pointing to a Bible section and choosing whichever word their finger
landed on, as they lacked the knowledge to understand the text anyway. The “Dead” family name was also imposed on them by white oppressors in the South, who exploited Black workers’ illiteracy by involuntarily replacing their old names. This practice of misnaming, especially as a power tool, depicts white people’s intrusion into Black society and attempts to remove their individualistic freedom. Milkman’s name, a constant reminder of his family’s past suffering, traps him in their history. By preserving the “Dead” name, he acknowledges a past that has brutalized his community, which prevents him from working
toward a different future—one where all people “fit in” with each other. In contrast to Morrison’s literary style, “The Namesake” revolves around the life of Gogol Ganguli, a young Bengali-American whose father names him after the Russian author Nikolai Gogol. Lahiri explains how in Bengali culture, children are given a “good name” for formal situations and a “pet name” used by family. Living in Boston, far from his parents’ home in Calcutta, Gogol never receives a good name, so his pet one sticks instead. Despite his father’s attachment to it, for Gogol, this name represents a cultural disconnect from both his Bengali and American backgrounds. Gogol’s name becomes a subject of ridicule by his peers, and he despises its idiosyncrasy and association with a writer who means nothing to him. When he enters college, Gogol starts going by “Nikhil,” which helps him construct a secondary, more secure version of himself. Through this name, Gogol develops a new sense of belonging
in American society and establishes personal agency.
Like for these two characters, the name “Diba” has influenced how I present myself to the world. Meaning “silk, embroidered brocade” and of Persian origin, my name always required a second take as my teachers in Turkey moved down the attendance list. Unlike many of my friends, I’ve never met my “name twin,” but I do keep a mental list of people who pronounce it correctly. Growing up with an unusual name felt alienating from my Turkish culture at times, but I’ve grown to love its unique ring and character.
Although difficult to pronounce in Turkish, my name is also surprisingly versatile in other languages. Adaptable to nearly all phonologies, from French to Chinese, it serves universally as a reflection of my identity. My name allows me to find belonging in diverse, global communities no matter where I am. Similarly, in my own culture, “Diba” acts as a conversation starter, an unexpected connector, a means for exploration, and captures everything that distinguishes me from others.
