Hannah Clague

When I was very, very small, I used to lie awake in my bed at night, whispering names over and over until the sounds no longer felt connected to each other and their origin, until they didn’t mean anything anymore. Syllables that meant my family, my friends, characters in the chapter books I read, would slide over my lips, again and again. 

Hannah. Ha. Nah. Ha ha ha ha. Nah nah nah nah. Hahahahahanahnahnahanhahanahanah.

I would marvel at how some seemingly random combinations of tongue positions and phoentics could somehow mean so much, could conjure up an exact picture of a person, could hold all that they are. I used to wonder who made up these names, who had the immense priviledge of sticking together meaningless syllables into names that would come to shape the identity of thousands of people. It seemed arbitrary to me, even then. But also powerful.

Right now, at the end looking back, this project kind of feels like those names felt after having rolled repetedly past my tongue so many times: like I've thought too much for too long and everything that used to hold so much meaning doesn't, anymore. Uniqueness and sameness and names and identity have been tossed around my brain too many times; they've run their course. I don't have anything more to say about them. It's time for me to step back, take what I've learned and walk away, so that maybe tomorrow ha and nah will start sounding like they mean something real again.

This is it, then. I took an All About Me essay I wrote when I was fourteen and turned it into many thousands of words and several ones of photos. I figured out that for me, my name is a symbol of my search to find self-worth, to truly believe in the validity of my own existence. I learned that a lot of other people with the same name as me don't think about this the same way I do, and that their thoughts can help me understand mine. I learned that my quest to figure out whether I deserve a place in the world isn't just about my name; it colors the reasons why I write, takes up constant space in my head, and follows me when I walk to the office for my internship (good thing I brought along a voice recorder). I'm glad I got to take the time this semester to really examine this part of me. I've discovered it's a big one.

I think my mom is a little offended that the name she put so much thought into choosing for me inspired an entire semester's worth of thought. Mom, don't feel bad. I meant what I said: I like my name. It's a metaphor for my place in the world, and, all things considered, I like it here.