In The Name Of The Father
A name. In the eyes of others, officially or otherwise, written or spoken, that is the one thing that people will know first of you.
It is the first impression, some say, but in truth, it is a judgement that they deliver. A snap decision made, one that will live until it is overturned on appeal. It's just that somehow, the word 'judge' and its variants have a negative connotation. “I don't judge people,” many would say.
Wrong, bitch. That's all you ever do. That's all every one can do. To look, and to judge.
The wise and the worldly will retain their judgement, but know that it is not final. That with further evidence presented, with more of the onion peeled, that judgement ultimately and usually changes by the layer. It is once you get to the core of the person, once you know every facet of their make up, that your judgement of them is totally and utterly final.
But then again...can one ever really know a person all the way to the core?
So, a name it is, then. The first layer of our protection. A good name can give a good impression. A meaningful one, the rise to interesting conversation pieces at a dinner party. A weird one prompts second takes, third takes, and so fourth and fifth, before the pronunciation of its intonation correctly matches the aimed cadences of each syllable. Or somewhere in that region, lest the victim gives up and gives in to the demand of the masses.
A plain impossible one merely changes his or hers, making it more Western, more Christian, more Muslim, more easy for the white folks to say it without spilling their Earl Grey's.
Dropping it? To go without a name? Impossible, an act so alien that reception of it borders amongst those meted to traitors.
Thus, a name it is, then. A heavy duty to have, to carry a name that would convey to the world in that instant of first judgement, an accurate portrayal of yourself.
Especially if its not your own.