Becoming Real

December 14, 2014 at 8:15 am (Faery tales) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

There is a power in knowing the true names of things. Every Faery tale I ever read taught me that. Those who knew Ella’s real name controlled her. The Miller’s daughter wins when she guesses Rumpelstiltskin‘s true name.

As you may have noticed a few posts back when I told the tale of my secondhand cats, I have trouble naming things. I tend to call things by their classification first like Holly Golightly does with Cat in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. A cat is a cat is a cat.

If something comes to me unnamed, I wait for it to reveal its true name to me.

For every doll or bear that resides with me, their name took months (sometimes years) to become clear. This is why I hated to get new dolls at Christmas – everyone always wanted to know RIGHT NOW what their name was!

I own three bears. Their names are Zuzu, Clementine and Garbo. Only Garbo’s name was clear from the very beginning. I recently acquired another bear. Here she sits on her CD Tower throne, watching and waiting.

Maple

Her original name is Kanata. How very unoriginal is what I thought when I read her tag. She is a ty Beanie Baby, sold to represent Canada. This is not a name. This is a country – a classification.

I acquired her in October and over the last few months discovered (uncovered) her true name. It is Maple. Because, like the red maple leaf, she also symbolizes Canada. She is more than a classification. Now, she has a presence and a personality. Now, she is named. She is seen.

Lulu Sleeping

Names are powerful. Names need to be taken seriously. Things (people) can not be called out randomly. Knowing someone’s true name can still give you power over them.

Do you remember at  what point you started calling your former teachers by their first name? I still having trouble saying Frank instead of Mr. LastName.

I still give them the power thirty years after I have finished with High School.

Places can have names as well. Half-way between where I live now and where I grew up there is a hill. It is called Hangman’s Hill. Here is the story as I heard it. In the 1950s, when power first came to this part of Saskatchewan, a power linesman working putting up poles slipped high up and hung himself on the line. The hill is said to be haunted. Did the hill get named because naming takes away the power to frighten and scare? If you can call something by its true name is it no longer scary? The hill is thus haunted only by a tragic tale and not by a scary spirit. Is this more a Halloween tale than a Christmas tale? No, there is a tradition of telling scary stories at Christmastime (see Dickens‘ A Christmas Carol).

View of the Hill

Elizabeth of the blog On Tap For Today  writes about the Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams: I remember this book sending me into a spiraling six year old frenzy, worried that my having strep throat would result in all of our toys being burned in the back yard, only for them to come to life.  I think the coming to life part scared me more than the burning.  Regardless, TVR contains one of my most favorite exchanges of all time:

“What is REAL?” asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Is being real the same as being named?

There are times I wish to be unnamed.

I grew up in a small town where everyone knows you (or thinks they know you). I moved back to the same area and plan to be here for many more decades. I plan to create a herstory here. There is so much more to me than what (who) I use to be.

I have many names. Crone. Aunt. Sister. Daughter. Step-daughter. Spinster. Cousin. Her mother’s daughter. I have other names that I will not name here because only I should know them; only I should control the power in them.

I name myself now. But there are times that I wish to not be remembered. Times I wish to be invisible. Times that I wish to be still.

There are times I wish to be unnamed.

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