We don’t get to choose our own names. We are born into families – the consequences of our ancestors’ choices – without consent. We’re called blessings, mistakes or “oops babies”, miracles, and pleasant surprises, the result of the choices that led to our conception. But we wear these labels and responsibilities when we aren’t even there to participate in the choices that led to our conception. And we don’t even get to choose our own names.
My parents named me Regina Lynette Walker. Walker is my paternal surname. Regina was selected because it sounded elegant and Mommy wanted me to be elegant as well. I don’t know the story of why Lynette was chosen – for much of my early life I didn’t have much interest in Lynette. I was told that if I was a boy, I would have been Kenneth. From the beginning I was called Gina. I loved the name Gina. And my heart was broken, seriously, when I was forced to use Regina for school.
Let me tell you how serious I was about Gina vs Regina. When I turned five and would be starting Kindergarten, Mommy required everyone outside of the family to call me Regina and for my daycare center to make me practice writing my name, Regina. I would always test the limits when told to write my name on papers, writing Gina as if Regina just never happened. And when I was corrected, forced to write my full first name, I would add the “Re” far on the other side of the paper in a different crayon color. I was serious about passively expressing my disdain.
I loved what teachers did with “Gina” on my art papers in daycare, writing my name in cursive at the top of brightly colored and painted creations. I thought it was beautiful enough to be a part of the work of art I’d created. And I would beg them to write my name on my papers, that is, before they were required to use Regina. I could write that mess myself – I was a precocious child so I think that was the exact thought I had.
Why did I love the name, Gina, so? It wasn’t my choice so I spent no energy in creating the name. But I can tell you that I still hold it dear. If you are not a loved-one (family) or close-one (friends and friends of family) then I know that you were told my name is Regina. And when you take it upon yourself to call me Gina, the hairs on my neck stand on end and an icy chill ripples down my spine. I used to correct people, but that has brought on endless drama. Because that chill down my spine only lasts a few seconds, I try to roll with it.
One day after a melodramatic display of rending my garments while weeping and wailing over having to write Regina on a paper in my coloring book (melodrama was for Daddy, passive aggressive for Mommy), Daddy showed me what my name meant in a dictionary. I read something akin to the following – “The name Regina means Queen and is of Latin origin.” Queen. I was like so let me get this straight – when you call me Regina, basically and essentially you are calling me a queen. Oh, I like that, and I will get used to that! From then on, I wore Regina like a diamond tiara. When people had trouble pronouncing it, I raised an eyebrow haughtily, squared my shoulders, and lifted my chin to enunciate my name with precision, clarity and honor. When people had trouble spelling my name, I would snap it off my tongue with the crispness of biting into a granny smith apple and then spell it in syllables and in rhythm “R-e/G-i/N-a”.
Why is my name so important to me? I’m not sure exactly – I didn’t even choose it so there was no time or energy investment on my part. I know that Gina is much more intimate and I’m actually disappointed when family doesn’t call me Gina – I feel like that means there is distance between us. I know that Regina is much more formal. I work with family and I am Regina at work and Gina after hours so that non-relatives don’t call me Gina assuming incorrectly that it’s what I prefer in general.
Over the years some people have taken it upon themselves to improve upon my name or to use something more familiar of their own choosing. I have taken great offense at Gi-Gi, and I refuse it by any means necessary. I tolerated Regine/Rayjean/Rajean (yes, those are all the spellings I saw on greeting cards and notes) because of the character on Living Single whose given name was Regina but chose to be Régine instead. And then they had the nerve to shorten this misnomer to Jean. For these people, I would like to know who are you to think you should change my name from the one my parents spent months deciding on and with confidence, documented it once I was born? *There is one exception to this rule and he knows what he can call me and he knows who he is.
My name is Regina. And some people call me Gina.
I am Regina Lynette 