On some Thursday afternoons, small groups of people gather in a church,
to watch a baby splashed with water, then named by some parson (the names
are chosen by the parents for who-knows-what?-reason). Others
merely register the babe at some office of the government, to get
that first document of the thousands that will attach to that name.
Taken all in all, those documents trace each person’s life, recording
what they did, where they lived, how much money they earned, or not,
but telling nothing or little at best of who the person was in any meaningful sense – or what they became, who they loved,
who loved them, what their minds did, thought, said, wrote.
Our society, structured, rigid, concerned with naming, classifying, likes the fixed, unchanging name, for “identities”, passports certificates, deeds ?
and other trash; licenses to drive a car, identity cards
as if the card is more important than the person. Bureaucracy gone mad:
The basis for our naming in the west is the father’s line, plus some label,
given before we have a mental form to distinguish us from other babes;
Real names for THAT time should be Hungry, Wailer, Biter, Giggler, Placid,
to be changed for bigger, fuller names, reflecting what we are, what we become,
as time goes by.