Names and Natives

When I was new to college, my younger sister asked me to get a sister tattoo with her. I said no because I thought tattoos were trashy, and one on the hand was definitely going to impede my achievements in life.

Now I have a 3/4 arm sleeve that tells a story of my life, and I cherish it.

When this same sister got married, she changed her first and last name. I criticized her choice in the beginning because with a new last name, she was already one step removed from the Kavin clan. Then with a new first name, there was no remnant of the person she was and had always been to her family. She was brand-new and that felt like a deliberate, hurtful separation.

Years later, I have decided to change my first and last name as well. It appears my younger sister had some things figured out before I did, and I couldn’t recognize the wholeness she was tapping into until I passed some milestones myself.

Living a lifestyle closer to the wilderness, I have been drawn to a lot of Native American literature. But like a true follower of these indigenous people, I started to discover that the journey didn’t stop at hearing and learning about their beliefs. Connection, deep and spiritual, is the true teacher, and understanding what you are in the Living World is at the heart of being a living thing. I needed to start experiencing, and not just amassing second hand information and stealing it for my own use.

An element that I have struggled with as a visitor to Native American practices and belief is how to do so honorably. It is often trendy to adopt traditions from a people group you aren’t a part of: in the homes of many Americans, you’ll find Indian tapestries, Tibetan Buddhist sculptures, Haitian paintings, Native American dreamcatchers, and more. Americans who have never been overseas will practice Yoga, make kombucha, or mumble the recognizable syllables in ‘Despacito’, with no inkling as to the translation.

This represents the beauty of humanity connecting over long distances as Amazon has become the new Silk Road. I have never been to China, the supposed birthplace of kombucha, but I love to take part in that tradition. And collecting artifacts from places I have been is a joyful celebration of the different cultures I have been witness to, even in small bites. But what’s the difference between visiting a culture and being a tourist to it?

A visitor in my mind is more respectful than a tourist. A visitor is quiet, observant and respectful. They participate, despite their beliefs. They replace judgment with openness and curiosity. Instead of refraining from a tradition they might be asked to join in, they hold back their assessment that ‘this is wrong because my religion calls this sacrilege or blasphemy‘. They are willing to truly put themselves in someone else’s shoes.

A tourist, however, has their phone out during sacred proceedings. Often, they don’t speak the language, so they can’t even pretend to ever understand the people around them, and not just their language. They simply miss important connections. They can be taken advantage of, like overpaying for a mango, because others can see their ‘all take and no give‘ attitude. And the treasures they can fit into their suitcase are used as trophies to gain some recognition, rather than reveal a shift in their worldview or a period of growth.

I have been both, and I’m sure you have to. At this point in my growth, I don’t want to be a tourist to the Native American way of life. I don’t want to use the songs I’ve learned in sweat lodges to become tools to impress. I don’t want to adopt traditions that I haven’t been invited into. I just want to connect with the world better, and it seems Native Americans are the best teachers.

I have a friend who practices some aspects of Lakota spirituality, and know another family who has been adopted into the Paiute tribe. Neither are from the lands where those tribes roam and were not raised in the culture. But they were accepted, and I imagine that olive branch was extended because their spirits were aligned with the tribe’s spirit.

The reason I am sharing this inspiration is because many Native tribes have a naming tradition. One tribe (Miwok) named their baby based on the flow of a stream nearby. The Hopi, which are indigenous to regions near me, used an ear of corn to represent Mother Earth, rubbed it over the 20 day old baby, then named the child when the first ray of sun hit its forehead. Every tribe had its own tradition, but generally Native Americans have multiple names throughout their lives. This symbolizes the need for growth, and the celebration of those changes.

Today, before a child is known, they are named. Before their true character or personality is viewed by the world, current day Americans are given a label that lasts their lifetime. Like my sister, these original names can hold memories or experiences that you don’t connect with anymore. And for me, my first name reflects who I was as a baby, not who I am now as a woman who has gone through incredible physical changes since I was a 7-pounder, and beautiful spiritual transformations time and time again. I am not that baby. I want to be called by a name that I feel connected to now, and since I will carry it alone, I want to choose it.

I am not Native to America. My family kindly refers to us as mutts, but the predominant makeup of my Kavin clan is Irish and German. Weighing all that I have learned about Native Americans, yet understanding that their lineage is not my own, I felt the best way to honor the tradition without being a tourist would be to name myself in the lineage that I do carry.

My nicknames as a child always tickled me: Little Running Gag, Ladapoo, Fruitpoolada, Lugnut, Looroo, Roo and more. And as an adult I’ve been called Lora Bora (thanks Bucky) and Lolo. But the nickname that strikes a chord most is Lorelei.

Lorelei is both a place and person (if you can call a siren that). It refers to a place in the Rhine River where sailors were lured into the rocks due to the way wind carried through the channel. Unbeknownst to them, sailors confidently aimed toward their death, thinking they were aimed safely through the corridor. Legend speaks to the beautiful and mystical siren who called out to the poor voyagers, deceiving them in their final moments.

But Lorelei is made up two words: a Gaelic and a German one that loosely translate to “murmuring rock”. And being both German and Irish, this name fits. It connects me to my childhood, my family, and my ethnic history. And now, being married to another carrier of the Irish heritage, my last name is O’Day! So if Lorelei O’Day doesn’t sound Irish enough to you, just know that the Gaelic spelling was formerly O Deaghaidh. That’s a near miss!

So to TommLynn, my sister: I understand now. Names are powerful labels and carriers of history. There is a beauty to choosing what you are called. Names are so much more powerful when they connect you to the milestones you’ve passed, or evoke stories and traits that you carry.

To those that asked, thanks for being curious about this step in my journey! I appreciate you being here with me 🙂 And to TommLynn, you are wise beyond your years.

Lorelei ❤