In 2014, there was an estimated 15,000 babies named Emma. But in 1987, the year I was born, Emma was kind of a unicorn name. Nobody else I knew had it except one other girl at school who I only knew because her mother was my dental hygienist. Aside from wanting to call me something fairly unusual, my mom says she had a premonition about who I would be, which is pretty amazing. I wonder if all expecting mothers feel this way. She was certain I was going to be a “whimsical child like Eloise from the Kay Thompson books,” but thought Emma had the same vibe. It does. My mom is an excellent namer of things.
Having an uncommon name was a mixed bag, and for a while I hated it. In a world of Jessica’s and Brittany’s and Ashley’s, Emma didn’t quite fit, and I didn’t see its charm. And as it turned out I wasn’t the only one. My grandma always called me Emmy, and I learned it was partly a pet name and partly a PC way to not call me Emma. On the surface that seems kind of harsh, but she was old, and rightfully had a major case of the fuck-its. For the record, my gram was very special. She could have called me “little weird face” and I would have loved her anyway.
Not liking my name prompted me to think more about what it could be. Like Stephanie Tanner, after the most complex female character on Full House, or Samantha after the American Girl doll I didn’t have but desperately wanted.
But I wanted to name more than myself, I wanted to name everything. There was a voice inside my tiny child brain yelling, “World! Bring me all your paint chips, nail polishes, cocktails and animals and I will name them all!” I still hear her humming inside my adult brain, and that’s probably why I ended up doing what I do for a living.
As I grew older, me and Emma made peace. Partly because of Rachel’s baby on Friends, and partly because I grew to like the idea of claiming and being claimed. I like when someone you love or care about is bold enough to put their flag into you.
There’s a part in the bible that says, “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine.” I don’t think that means God knew our names before our parents picked them out, because that doesn’t make sense and I don’t think he operates like a cloud-based magician. More on that later in an essay I might someday write about God. I just think naming stuff is important, okay?
My husband calls me Hoags because my last name used to be Hoaglund. On the long list of cool things in life, sharing a name with someone is towards the top, but I think it’s his way of keeping the OG Emma alive. I can’t speak for him, but it makes me feel like we’re still just dating. You know, just a couple of tipsy, budding adults meeting up for “dates” in hopes of messing around later. I think this is an A+ husband move.
Another time he called me Kitten and I loved it so much I almost lost my mind. But my husband is very thoughtful, and he doesn’t go all willy nilly with the pet names. He’ll throw out a willy, and then after a while, when the time is right, he’ll dole out a nilly. That’s why Kitten is reserved for birthday cards and special occasions. I love the anticipation of it.
In college, a dear friend started calling me Amelie. He effectively renamed me for reasons I don’t remember, but I loved the way it made me feel. To this day he calls me Ammi for short, and it’s like getting wrapped up in a blanket straight from the dryer.
Sometimes people give other people names for stupid reasons. Like to separate the veterans from the rookies. Or when you’re trying out for a sports team and some d bag calls you “dilemma” because it’s the only thing that rhymes. Or because you’re a bully. They are rarely clever and the person getting the name rarely likes it. But when they’re done well, like in the case of Kitten or Ammi, or the name your parents chose for you, it feels great to be claimed, to feel like you’re curled up and cozy even when you’re standing tall on your own two feet.
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