My Name is Miriam

The people are coming and going, filled with anxiety and anticipation.

I am in a line of travelers - squeezed with a mass of people, waiting to move.

I am about to pass into the next phase and approach to my gate.

I hand the airport official my boarding pass and I.D.

This is when it all happened, starting with her casual response.

"Thank you, Miriam."

And there it was.

My name.

Her response was habit, given to hundreds of names the same morning.

It was meant to give me the go. But, instead, it stopped me.

Did she just call me "Miriam?"

Caught off guard, I actually checked my license.

And there it was.

My name.

I was deep in thought as I reclaimed my belongings and started my
march to gate C17. I have seen it on papers, but no one has ever just
called me "Miriam" like that. As if it was my name. I tried to make
sense of the feelings circling my heart upon being casually referred
to by a name given at birth, but practically lost for twenty years.
Approaching my gate, I realized that, while I was about to board a
plane and fly across the country, I was also having an inner voyage.
In a world of travelers, something within was coming home.

----

I arrived at my gate, having made the decision to start thinking more
seriously about making my Hebrew name a more vibrant part of my life.

When I got to my gate, I had to pick up something that my father, who
had taken a flight twenty minutes earlier, had left me by the counter.
He told me he would put my name on it. So I came to the counter to
pick it up.

"Hi, I believe my father just left something here for me. It should
say Mimi on it."

They handed me the envelope. To be totally sure I would be able to
retrieve it, my father had put both my names on it. Right beside the
"Mimi" was written "Miriam."

So, there it was.

My name.

But this time, it was lodged in between two parentheses.

Being the moments leading up to arriving at my gate, I had no casual
response. I looked at my father's handwriting on the envelope, and,
for the first time in a while, felt very sure about a personal
decision.

The name I was given at birth does not belong in parentheses.

The voice within started telling me that I better make this name mine
before it gets locked into only official and meaningless occasions. I
can't let my Hebrew name, and the name of one of our Prophetesses, be
scattered into casual oblivion all the rest of my life. I won't
tolerate that anymore.

So right then and there, I ripped "Miriam" from the tight squeeze of
the parentheses that have held it for way too long. In a daring and
monumental escape, I felt a little fear and a slight lack of
readiness. But my consciousness was buzzing - and I felt obligated to
respond.

Surrounded by movement, I was forced to look within myself and make
something more permanent. For twenty years, my real name was floating,
and now I felt it starting to land. In a place where no one truly
exists, an essential part of my identity was being revived.

For now, the decision to embrace my Hebrew name feels more like a
responsibility than a strong desire. I feel more like a "Mimi" than a
"Miriam" and I have not had a wild epiphany that has led to a
rejuvenated connection to my name. It is more the feeling of injustice
in not being connected that is encouraging me to make it more a part of my life. While the conviction in this decision is not of the nature to officially ask people to start calling me "Miriam," I think I will
be delighted to turn my head when hearing it called. For, while my realization has nothing to do with feeling so connected, it has everything to do with wanting to be.

With this newfound relationship to my name, I already find myself
feeling more whole. The festival of Purim is drawing oh so near, and,
this year, the person beneath the mask is more true to her identity.

She knows her name.

And her name is Miriam.