Deadnaming (With Reference to the Case of Mara in the Book of Ruth)

Don't Deadname (after William Blake) 

Stephen Alexander (2024) [1]

 

 

I. 

 

Perhaps because I have myself used and been known by several aliases, I'm somewhat sympathetic to those (often transgender or non-binary) individuals who object to what is termed deadnaming ...

 

That is to say, the sometimes unintentional, sometimes deliberate act of referring to a person by a name they no longer identify with or wish to be called, even if that name is the one that appears on their birth certificate and other official documentation and is deemed to be not only their legal name, but their real name referring to their true self (an assumed alias is invariably seen as suspicious; an attempt to conceal or deceive). 

 

Although the verb deadnaming is of recent origin - the OED dates it to 2013 - the insistence by others on calling an individual by an old name is not without historical - and indeed biblical - precedent ...

 

 

II. 

 

Readers with knowledge of the Old Testament will be familiar with the Book of Ruth and the story of how Naomi, having been forced by circumstances to leave Bethlehem and live in the land of Moab, has the tragic misfortune of losing her husband and both sons. 

 

Grief-stricken and near destitute, she decides to return to her homeland and is accompanied by her daughter-in-law, Ruth, at the latter's insistence; the Book of Ruth essentially describing the struggles of the two women to survive in a patriarchal society and in the face of much hardship. 

Of most interest to me, however, is the fact that when Naomi returns and is greeted by those who remember her, she tells them: "Do not call me Naomi; call me Mara, for the Almighty has dealt very bitterly with me".

 

Obviously, she refers at one level to the fact that God has left her bereft and in poverty. But her remark also indictes that the bitterness she is experiencing is so profound that it is transitional if not indeed transformational: she no longer feels herself to be the same woman upon her return to Bethlehem as the woman who left ten years earlier. 

 

If this is for the most part a psychological change, we can probably assume that she has also been physically aged by time and sorrow. Thus, it's perfectly understandable, I think, that she would wish to be known by a new name; a name more indicative of the woman she now recognises herself to be; i.e., one born of and shaped by bitterness. 

 

For whereas her old name, Naomi, means sweet-natured and pleasant of disposition, her new self-chosen name of Mara means bitter (although it might be noted that this name in Hebrew also implies strength; for just as hatred can itself become creative, so too can bitterness harden and make stronger).

 

The point is this: we all, like Mara, have the right to become-other and not to be deadnamed by those who value fixity over fluidity and would forever tie us to the past.   

 

 

Notes

[1] This image is based on Blake's print 'Naomi entreating Ruth and Orpah to return to the land of Moab' (1795), full details of which can be found on the V&A website: click here.  

The Post of Proper Names

Recently, at a party, I overheard what seemed an undeniably bitchy but nonetheless interesting remark: when told by a young Australian woman, who happens to be married to quite a famous Catalan designer, that they intended to name their unborn baby girl Bacardi, the hostess gave a superior little snort and declared that they were condemning the child to a future that would involve stripping and low-paid bar work.

It reminded me that many people still strongly believe that names are of crucial significance; that they not only determine an individual destiny, but also reveal the essential character of the person to whom they belong. 

I'm pretty sure that both women I mention above - the expectant mother and the hostess - subscribed to this same line of thought, which, of course, can be traced back to the ancient Athenian philosopher Cratylus; he being the most famous exponent of this popular form of linguistic naturalness.

The mother-to-be, for example, is doubtless convinced that by giving the child such an unusual name she is securing for her an exceptional future, in which the horizon of possibility will remain wide open. Like Plectrude's mother, Lucette, this woman thinks that to assign a child a common first name is the same as wanting to give them a mediocre world of grey skies and low-ceilings in which to grow up.

The acid-tongued party hostess would surely agree, in part at least. For the only real difference between the women is over what the name Bacardi implies and here there are clearly social and cultural factors involved and it is not simply a question of onomastics.