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“My name is Foster and my pronouns are he/they,” is how I introduce myself now. When I came out as nonbinary trans, I let go of the social markers that used to describe me. I needed a new name for myself since I wasn’t a “she” and I wasn’t a “Claire.” I changed the name I’d written on every school paper and used for every byline, on every bookplate, and for every RSVP.
Naming myself was a huge responsibility. Even though the change was minor, using only my last name, it felt like a massive step away from the person I’d been. Navigating the old expectations that came with the name and pronouns assigned at birth is very tough. Picking a new name was saying that my former self is less important than the one I have become: that my sense of self is rooted in myself alone, divorced from my origins.
The name we give something shapes its destiny. Names stay with a person for life, and there are few opportunities to change them. (Birth, marriage, conversion, immigration.) I’d heard of hippie parents letting their children pick their own names. The results were “Crayon” and “Spirit of the Moon,” coyote names that were soon outgrown, discarded, not used outside the family. I was not a child, so I needed something that would carry me to the other side of my transition. I wasn’t going to start introducing myself as “Chevrolet” at parties. I didn’t want to be someone with an exotic name in a sea of plain Janes.
Mostly, my hesitation came from the knowledge that my birth name connected me to my family. Claire, the name I grew up with, was vanilla: the sixth most popular for girls the year I was born, a marker of middle-class whiteness. It means bright, shining; like a star. It doesn’t mean me. I inherited my name from my great-grandmother Clarinel. I never felt it suited me, but I used it anyway. It gave me a sense of my legacy, the place where I came from.
Do I look like a Claire? I always wondered. If I’d been a boy, my parents were going to name me Charles. They also considered Zoe, which my father dismissed as “too weird.”
The names we are given affect our trajectory in life, our opportunities, and our perception of ourselves. They are inextricably woven into the fabric of our self-awareness. Give a child an ugly name, or one that rhymes with something awful, or one that is loaded with negative social connotation, and watch them struggle to cope with the weight of their name.
I had named my son with extreme care. I kept a list of names on the fridge, marking off the ones that didn’t work. I needed to give him something flexible that would adapt as he grew up, moved, settled into a career and an identity of his own. It took nine months to pick his name, and until I held him for the first time I wasn’t sure I’d made the right decision. Nine months was a lot of deliberation. Naming myself felt more expeditious, knowing that I’d already spent so many years trying to fit into the wrong gender.
I tossed around options that were homonymic with “Claire.” I thought about Charles, which felt too formal. Clive. Clarence. Clark. Clyde. I liked them, but they didn’t feel quite right. I spent hours pretending to say hello to people who knew me, or who didn’t. I thought of all the nicknames that had stuck to me: Claire Bear, Pony Boy, Weirdo, Rudy, Naked Girl, Pippi, Casper, and Bunny. Like a real name, I didn’t choose them. They were relics from different parts of my life, each one a memento from a particular time, place, and person. None of them captured all of me, but what name does? I knew from experience that every person is greater than the sum of their parts. A name invokes someone, but cannot synopsize them.
In high school, my best friend and I took to calling each other by our last names in nasal, gangster tones. We lived in suburban Virginia: we’d never been to New York or Boston or really anywhere, so our accents approximated the ones we heard on TV.
“Aye, Foster.” I heard it every day. It was already my name. I knew to respond to it. Remembering my friend made it easier for me to start using my last name socially, instead of the first name my parents assigned to me.
Foster is a verb that means to encourage, husband, and nurture. The bond between a foster child and a parent is based on mutual need and love, not a familial obligation. Foster is a name that fits me.
My name change announced my membership in a community of trans people who’d left their birth names behind. I knew people who called themselves Rowan, Nev, and Meep. Most of them had fraught relationships with their families, who still called them Robert, Nick, and Morgan. Holidays were hard: most of them didn’t bother going home anymore. When they’d stopped being “Robert,” home had stopped being home.
Some people call their birth name a “deadname,” which highlights the significance of the name change and the finality of transition. It is incredibly rude to use someone’s old name after they’ve changed to a new one. Calling someone Raymond when she goes by Raelle is a small, awful act of violence. It implies, “I know you better than you know yourself. My idea of you is more important than your idea of yourself.” It erases someone’s agency and their personhood.
Ignoring a chosen name, which reflects a person’s expression of themselves, goes hand in hand with deliberately misgendering someone. Since I started using only my last name socially, the people in my life have broken into two distinct camps: those who make an effort, and those who do not. The people who are most resistant to my name change are the ones who are most invested in the person I was. My former fiance, for example, still calls me “Claire” and “she” when he refers to me, though he was the first person I came out to and claimed to be supportive of any changes I needed to make to feel more whole. With some friends, I’m “Foster” to my face, and “Claire” when I’m not around. My parents, when they sent a letter informing me that we are now estranged, addressed it, “Dear Claire.” Supportive friends and family members have no problem calling me “Foster.” Hearing them affirm my decision makes me feel safe, loved, heard. It’s the smallest thing, and makes such a difference.
My son is the sole exception to the two-way split between people who call me “Claire” and people who call me “Foster.” To him, I am “Mama.” I always will be “Mama.” That is my identity and my role, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. He is the only person in the world who will ever call me that, which makes it precious to me.
“Mama” is a name I chose for myself, too. In motherhood, a different kind of transition, I found I had the power to define myself. I had to take responsibility for who I wanted to be.
Last month, lying in the grass while my son practiced with his soccer team, I heard a woman calling her daughter from the field. Time to get back to the car, go home, start making dinner.
“Let’s go, Claire!”
The mother clapped her hands. Her girl went running to her, arms outstretched, and I thought, I’m glad she likes being Claire. It’s a fine name. It suits her. I’m glad someone else is getting a good use from it.
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