A Rose By Any Other…

Name keyrings upset me. Whenever I pass a giftstore flogging personalised mugs for the Amandas, Pauls and Sarahs of the world, I check for my name to no avail. As an eight year old girl all I wanted in the whole wide world, more than to meet Blossom in person, was a notepad made in Taiwan with “A Note From Jazial” headlining each page.

I check for lighters personalised to me, and “Lisa’s Parking Only” signs I could hang in my garage, if I had a garage…and a car… Soft toy manufacturers never include ‘Jazial’ in the ranks of Janes, Julias, Jennifers and Janines when sewing names on to the bellys of little bears.

It’s a futile self-destructive practice, about as likely to end in joy as a search for an original 1988-release Jem & The Holograms doll with the light up star earrings. I scan eBay regularly for one nonetheless.

My name was almost Lucy, and I claim it as a nom de plume when ordering takeaways or Starbucks (not that I would ever do that, evil American church of consumerism that it is. But hot damn, a caramel frappucino for the walk along Takapuna beach goes down well. So I hear).

My grandmother Rosemary has a mug with the definition of her name on it. Kind to animals, a loyal friend, affectionate, creative. How I yearned to be praised when glancing at my cup as I dunked a gingernut biscuit into tea, defined by my vessel as I sipped at coffee. Instead, I am in posession of a lovely set of plain eggshell blue mugs that tell me nothing except that they were from Freedom Furniture.

Baby name books compile all the names in the world, ranked by popularity and neatly defined. Whenever browsing a bookstore, I flip in vain to ‘Ja…’ Cearly publishers are wise enough not to advise expectant parents torture their children.

In what I can retrospectively explain as a need for affinity in my unique name-ness, I perplexed everybody by naming my cat Osmo as a seven year old, pronounced ‘Ozmo’.

Whenever I meet people, instead of “Nice to meet you”, they react with “What? How do you say it? What? Oh… Wow. That’s an…interesting name. Where does it come from?” Uh, creative parents.

Last night at a pub, the friend introducing me challenged the person I’d just met to guessing when he asked how its spelled. “J…e?” No… “J…a!” Yes! “z…i el?” Close! It takes people an average of about five attempts to get my name right, or they just resort to calling me ‘Giselle’. I worked in a car-breakdowns call centre for four horrific months in between bouts of travelling, and stopped callers in their tracks when I greeted them with, “You’re speaking with Jazial. How can I help?” “With who??”

There is a website called www.jazial.com that promotes in European pop art something called Jazialization, which I could explain if I spoke French. I think I’ll have to make up my own definition. If you Google Jazial, you’ll find I’m the only living person in the entire world with that name. There is a man called Jazial Tate buried in Tennessee who lived from 1853-1930 according to rootsweb.ancestry.com, back when people had names like Ezra and Jebidiah. I’d like to visit the grave one day, just for the utterly surreal experience of seeing my own name somewhere that doesn’t belong to me.

I dreaded the first day of school each year. Teachers going through roll call for the first time would stumble horribly and precurse their attempt at pronouncing my name with, “Now I’m not quite sure how to pronounce this one so just bear with me…” Hi, I’m normal, I swear…

I read an article in the New Zealand Herald once about how children with strange names were less likely to succeed in school, due to teachers judging the children for having come from an unconventional home and being more likely to be difficult students. I cut it out of the paper and left it on my mother’s desk. She merely cackled, taking particular delight in telling the rest of the family (who have names like Peter, James and Kate) in a fit of giggles, “Guess what Jazial did..” “…I’m so sorry for giving you life, darling. So, so sorry.” Easy for you to say, Linda.

The New Zealand Herald recently reported the following story:

New Zealand children have been given names such as Number 16 Bus Shelter, Violence and Benson and Hedges(twins).
But other names, including Fish and Chips, Yeah Detroit, Stallion, Twisty Poi, Keenan Got Lucy and Sex Fruit, have been blocked by registration officials.
The revelations came during written findings by Family Court Judge Murfitt, who ordered a girl be put in court guardianship so her name – Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii – could be changed.
The girl’s lawyer told the judge she was so embarrassed by her name she refused to reveal it to friends.
Child Youth and Family does not consider giving a child an out-of-the-ordinary name a form of abuse unless a child suffers serious bullying as a result.

Being the only child in my entire family, I feel some responsibility to carry on the whanau surname. Being a girl however, I’ll be required to take on my husband’s name someday. No pressure you know, it’s only ending an entire heritage line, nothing but slaughtering the moniker my great great grandfather proudly sailed over from England with some 100 years ago. I’ve considered asking my future husband to take on my surname instead, but I’m not particularly attached to Crossley as a surname. Supposedly a lea was a river, and my ancestors lived across it. Like Chinese whispers, the folks Across The Lea become Crossley. (Though I think that tale may be a myth.)

I was given my mother’s surname rather than my father’s, being as conventional as we clearly are… My father’s surname by the way, is Exley. Yes, I’m aware of the irony.

I might just make up a new surname.

My Saturday morning, slightly-hungover wearing pyjamas soundtrack has been:

Dishwasher by Fujiya & Miyaki / Jane Says live by Jane’s Addiction / Sex On Fire by Kings Of Leon