R

ight now, I don’t have a 
name. More accurately, 
I have about five. A few 

are more correct than others, but I’d 
respond to all of them. Rather than a 
“real name,” I might just be in pos-
session of a bunch of labels — some 
of which describe who I used to be, 
while others lay out my plans for the 
future.

Since I came out as a trans woman, 

my legal name doesn’t match the 
name I call myself, which sometimes 
doesn’t match what I hear from 
friends and family, or the one I use in 
class. I juggle my monikers through-
out each day, trying to decide which 
one feels best for each situation.

If I met you for the first time in 

person today — shaking your hand 
and all that — I’d probably say 
“Hey, I’m Adam.” And you prob-
ably wouldn’t think that much of it. 
I basically look like an Adam. I have 
longer hair, maybe, or more feminine 
glasses, but in sweaters and jeans, I 
still look male, and I’m not going to 
fuck up that impression and tell you 
my life story the very first time we 
meet.

Adam is still what my parents call 

me. It was the name on my Christ-
mas presents this year. It’s still what 
some of my friends call me. And, 
given that it’s my legal name, Adam 
is still what I use when I’m on the 
phone with pharmacists or insur-
ance people, trying to figure out 
how to get the prescriptions I need 
to facilitate my transition. I always 

wonder if the people at the other end 
of the line know what the prescrip-
tions are for, what the names of the 
drugs actually mean, and if so, do 
they realize how weird and confus-
ing it is that they still call me Adam? 
But if they are raising their eyebrows 
at the boy’s name next to a request 
for Estradiol, they don’t betray it in 
their voices.

And truth is, I don’t mind Adam all 

that much. It’s a fine, efficient name, 
and I can easily deal with hearing 
it from professors and dentists and 
whomever else. There’s a power in 
your life story and identity, and it’s 
freeing to share it or not share it 
with whomever you wish.

At the same time, I can’t help but 

say I’ve been having more and more 
visceral reactions to being called 
Adam in social settings. I choose not 
to correct anyone, because I’d rather 
they call me the most natural word 
they know rather than force some-
one to do something that doesn’t feel 
right to them. But I’ve started feel-
ing this tightening in my heart, little 
pricks of denial and rebellion in my 
brain when I hear my old name. It’s 
nothing I take personally, but I think 
I still look in the mirror too much 
and see a lie. I feel like I’m show-
ing the world something that I don’t 
want them to see — that nobody 
actually recognizes who I really am. 
My old name reinforces that false 
perception.

The best workaround I’ve found 

so far — the best mix of personal 

expression and privacy — is simply, 
“Theisen.” It’s my last name, pro-
nounced like “Tyson” for reasons 
I’ve never been able to explain, and 
in some circles, it’s turned into this 
cool kind of mononym that I hon-
estly really enjoy. It’s mysterious 
and gender-neutral and it hints at 
the truth without being overly blunt 
about it. It’s clearly temporary, but I 
think it’s a fun and effective way to 
handle the awkward middle ground 
I’m in right now. I look male, but I’m 
not. I feel female, but I’m not quite 
there yet, visually. At least my last 
name is nice and consistent.

When I first knew that I was trans 

— like, not when I was just worried 

about my gender, but when I final-
ly confirmed it to myself that I’m 
a trans woman — a new name was 
an overwhelming choice. I didn’t 
know if I should just feminize my 
name into something like “Adele” 
or “Addison,” but that felt too weird, 
too much like I was just tweaking 
my male life. There were too many 
choices, though, in the wide world of 
names. I needed something I could 
have a personal connection to, some-
thing I thought was cute and would 
say something about me and didn’t 
have any negative associations. I 
looked at hundreds of names and 
tried to picture my future with each 
one, how they would sound coming 
out of my friends’ mouths. It was 
impossible.

I went with Lauren because one 

night I suddenly remembered how, a 

very long time ago, my mom told me 
that’s what she would have named 
me if I had been born cis female. And 
once I said it in my head a few times, 
I realized it was perfect. Like Adam, 
it’s fairly simple, and it also happens 
to be cute and very much me in a 
personal, real way. I like that it’s not 
quite a name that I chose myself, and 
that it seems to hint at an alternate 
version of me, one I’ve often thought 
about — that other universe where 
I’m born female and proceed to live 
my whole, normal life that way.

And so, Lauren has become the 

name I’ve used on job applications, 
the name I’ve given to people once I 
know them well enough to feel safe, 

the name I use to make accounts on 
websites. With my friends, there’s 
the somewhat androgynous nick-
name “Lo,” which I love, and the 
more playful “Lolo,” which always 
makes me smile.

I’ll admit that it still took a little 

while for Lauren to feel like my nat-
ural name when people used it. It’s 
something I’m just starting to get 
conditioned to, and while I’m trying 
to work on my new signature and 
not get overly excited when I hear 
people use it, I’m often still pain-
fully aware of how my name doesn’t 
match my face, or my clothes or my 
voice (God, especially my voice). I’m 
working to fix all that in the time-
frame that’s most comfortable for 
me, but even before that time comes, 
I love my name, and I can’t wait until 
it’s my only one.

Wednesday, January 18th, 2017 // The Statement
6B

“Call Me Lo”

by Lauren Theisen, Daily Arts Writer

ILLUSTRATION BY CLAIRE ABDO

