All about names

mostly my own

I’m often asked about the origins of the name I’ve gone by since 1983.

It wasn’t ever that I disliked the name my parents gave me. I’ve always delighted in the bizarre protocol of my maternal grandmother that landed me the name Susan. Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. A rose by any other name and all that…

My grandmother, Lillian Whiting was born in 1882 in Cochrane Ontario. As a young woman, she managed a China shop in Tara, Ontario on the Bruce Peninsula. She would gather with her women friends to paint exquisite and unique tea cups and saucers.

In those days in her circle, it was considered too familiar to address even close friends by their first names but too formal to call each other Miss Whiting or Mrs. McCauley. Instead, they chose other first names to call each other. Although my grandmother’s name was Lillian, her friends chose the name Susan for her.

My grandmother died the April before the August I was born.

I didn’t dislike the name Susan but over the years I played with its various versions, including the short-lived Betty Sue. For many years I was known as Susy. Susy Sunshine by my mother, and alternately Susy Cream Cheese and Susy-Q, from songs made popular in the late 60s.

When I joined a ragtag ersatz commune in the Kootenay Mountains, another Susie lived there, so I was proclaimed Susy Sunshine, then shortened to Sunshine. Somehow, I don’t remember exactly when, the name evolved into Sunny, which I liked very much.

Photo by Celeste Horrocks on Unsplash

In the 80’s there was meditation, a guru of sorts, and I was given a brand-spanking new name. Anurag Deepam, Love Light.

My mother and I sit side by side on barstools at Driftwood, silky Caribbean Tradewinds ruffling our hair. She takes a long drink of her vodka soda, straightens her back, and clears her throat. “We weren’t going to talk about this,” she says.

“Let’s talk about it,” I say, lifting my Rum punch in a sort of toast to all the things we don’t talk about. Bob Marley sings no woman no cry from the jukebox.

“We gave you a perfectly good name.”

Not a statement I can argue with so I sip my drink.  

My father bends over the pool table, readying his cue.

“There’s nothing wrong with the name we gave you,” she says as though I hadn’t heard.

“Nothing,” I echo. “I’m still me.”

She takes a delicate sip. The ice cubes have melted, the glass slick with condensation. My parents sold everything in Canada to reinvent their lives in this tropical paradise. To them now, it is home. Placing her glass on the damp coaster, my mother says, “Of that I’m not so certain.” She swivels on her stool to watch my father take his shot. My father, William, Willy, Bill, Billy Ben.

We didn’t speak of my name change again and I remained Susan to my parents.

It’s a perfectly good name.

Professionally, I’ve always kept my given name, Susan. When deciding how to introduce myself to potential publishers, I chose to use my perfectly good name. I reasoned that using the name Deepam could be misleading, I could be perceived as someone writing only spiritual essays, or of appropriating a voice not my own; something one wishes to avoid at all costs.

Whatever you choose to call me, my only wish is that you do.

Call me.