Call me by my name or go to jail
three names, one bridge burned, and no pronoun preference
Suicide at Dawn by Victor Brauner 3x set on a floral backdrop
It’s officially illegal to call me anything other than Quincy. I do accept nicknames. A few favorites so far: Quince, Q, and Quin.
I’m overjoyed to occupy a name that feels unquestionably me. 3 name changes later. Sure the first two I had no say in, whatsoever, but I am proud to be the type to not stick with things just because.
The first name was given to me by my birthmother. A woman who, sadly, I never had the chance to know. Although I can say that I’ve felt her often. In my unexplainable impulses and the smile I get mid-sentence when I’m yapping passionately. And based on the little bit of lore I know about her, we share a taste for fun and not-so-saintly men.
My deadname arrived upon my adoption. Uniquely feminine and the meaning itself I carried with me in my actions and mindset. Actions and mindset I resented more often than not.
Deadname meaning: Rational, of noble sort, against rage, without madness
My ability to rationalize has always been exceptional but me being a person who can rationalize almost anything I find myself confined when being perceived as a rational person, and with that a noble person. My moral compass remains flexible and often convenient for my reality. Then of course against rage and without madness has never been me. Rage and madness are the riptides that move me to action on a daily basis.
So it was inevitable that one day I would change my name.
In all seriousness, I felt no connection to my name. The discordance between what I was called and who I am is much deeper.
Let’s get the easiest part to digest out of the way.
Yes, I’m genderfluid and my deadname wasn’t cutting it.
And yes, from a young age I felt my name did not encapsulate the space of neither that I reside in.
And yes, I do give thanks that I did not name myself Phoenix, a name I was dead set on at the age of 5.
That being the easy part to take in, I’m still perplexed by the amount of people who can’t seem to reckon with the fact that I have no preferred pronouns. My favorite part is when people say, “Let me know when you do know your preferred pronouns.”
It turns out having no preference is, by design, a preference.
Now let’s get to the harder part. The part that makes people feel “bad”. Let me be frank, if you feel “bad” at any point in what I’m about to tell you:
Go fuck yourself.
You feeling bad/pity/sympathy is merely a reflection on you and your inability to sit with uncomfortable truths.
The best thing you can do if you feel moved is to like, share, comment and smash that subscribe button as opposed to messaging me telling me I’m brave, powerful or any iteration of characteristics I already know to be true about myself.
The more substantial reason I decided to change my name is because my first and most formative abuser had a hand in naming me. Quite literally, an unbearable place to be.
Being named by the person who wrecked your sense of autonomy, forced you to exist in fear and persistently used every viable opportunity to fuck with your self-esteem creates a seemingly insurmountable gap between yourself and your desire to be seen.
To live everyday knowing that they get to carry with them a sense of pride that the tangibility of your name was bestowed by them. Thrust upon you just like the harm they caused and take no accountability for.
I refused to live in that knowing, in that gap. I eliminated the space between self and seen. I burned the bridge between me and them.
And now my reward is a name that reflects me fully and quintessentially.
