I have reverted to mon nom ancien: Joan. Ever since I can remember, I have struggled to identify myself. By this, I do not mean to say that I do not know who I am, for I have always known this simple and all-so-trite thing. Some people spend their entire lives trying to ‘find themselves,’ whatever this may be. I know who I am and I need not go in circles.
My great grandmother used to call me Joan. In English … this is a girl’s name. But in Català it is the equivalent of John. Oh but it is dead common is it not? And Juan sounds so banal, so decadent if I may be allowed to use my own mot particulier. I have always loved how the name Xavier rolls off my tongue, especially in French. It is exquisite to the point of causing a dionysian delight.
I can go for months without feeling this desire that percolates eventually, a desire to have a new name. Sometimes it is a desire to furnish myself with a name that suits the time. So I find myself digging through my mind until I finally retrieve one that feels ‘just right.’ It is all strange and perplexing, but it is how I am.
I am guilty of possessing a list of names that I wish I had been given by my parents. Somehow the spirit of rebellion lacked when it came to name me. How could my parents name me Juan when my sisters were blessed with Gerania and Alondra. How ironic, how vexing! To the païen au coeur, an all-too-Christian name while my sisters were adorned with fancifully pagan-like, or what one would assume to be names that one would have given to one’s children during an undefiled pre-Christian world!
Maybe one day, I will have the audacity to change my name to something more me!
Changing subjects, for that is what is called for at this particular point in space, it snowed quite a bit. And by a bit, I mean a lot! I had never seen so much snow, except when I lived in Oregon. And as we travelled down Cerrillos, which was unusually empty and serene, I joked “this is what it must be like in Alaska.” Not that I have ever been to Alaska, but one can always theorize.