Names and Fitting In by Diana Frazier

I had recently told my dad I was pregnant; this was my fourth time.

The third pregnancy ended in the first trimester, and he was nervous for me to be pregnant again. To him, my prior miscarriage meant pregnancy is dangerous and I could die. I was irritated at his remarks, unable to see it was his immense love for me coming through as worry. I was his baby, and he didn’t want to ever lose me. After some days, we chatted again, and he was able to be excited for me. I told him it would be a while before we’d know the sex of the baby, but I was thinking of using his name/s for the baby.

He immediately replied with a hint of his mother’s Minnesota Norwegian accent peeking through, “oh Diana, no. My names are terrible. I was bullied for them…a lot. Please don’t saddle my grandchild like that.” 

I hadn’t expected that response. Until that moment, I had no awareness of my dad feeling shame about his names, both which were coming back in “style” 10 years ago- Truman Henry. I thought they were classic, timeless, even cool names. I loved hearing my Mexican stepmother call him Trumie. It felt so full of love. 

But I heard the pain in his voice.

I merged that with knowing he’d been bullied for having a large head as a child- “you look like an orange on a toothpick!” the school kids taunted. 

I saw my dad as a handsome, tall, strong man with beautiful blue eyes and golden-brown hair. He was outgoing and people loved to be around him. He brought life to every room, with both humor and heart. He stood up to bullies in the workplace, defending his coworkers who didn’t look or love the same ways he did. He gave the best hugs, and his pride in me was felt even through the phone.

My dad died a couple short months after our conversation about names.

He never got to meet three of my babies.

I turned forty recently and there’s been deep joy mixed with the lament of missing my dad, to consider the things he told me, and the ways he felt loved and happy, and excluded and belittled.

When I asked him about using his names, I see now it was the little boy in him who responded so quickly and adamantly, “no, oh God no. Don’t use my names.” The subtext might have been, “don’t make my grandchild a target- don’t make life any harder for them. It was hard for me.”

“Fitting in is the opposite of belonging.” Brené Brown

My dad wanted a different name, a smaller head, anything to make him blend in with his peers and avoid their taunts. His home life was difficult and perhaps fitting in anywhere was just out of reach. I wonder if he’d had the option to have his names, be affectionately called by his names, and to be positively seen and known by his names, would he have hated his names so much? 

Thinking of my dad’s stories has given me the opportunity to ponder the things I dislike about myself and how my desire for something different is often oriented towards fitting in.

As a chubby little girl, I stood sobbing in front of my bedroom mirror, envisioning my body if I could cut parts of it off. If I could fit in. I never considered, or knew, that receiving love and affection just as my body is could be possible.

I spent much of my childhood singing.

I scribbled song lyrics in notebooks before I knew how to spell the words.

I sang outside, inside, while doing chores, while playing in my room.

Music was my home.

I could build rooms and cozy furniture with the words I sang. And I heard often how annoying I was. On the stage, I was praised and complimented, so I learned people would like me on their terms and in small doses.

Now I’m an adult working to overcome the feeling that others simply tolerate me; too kind to really say how annoyed they are while around me. Short of a couple friends who sang with me, I learned to shut up or be funny, and be useful. I couldn’t figure out how to do that and still be myself. Somewhere along the way I made the choice to fit in instead of to live. I spent decades chasing belonging, never knowing I was running in the opposite direction. 

Fitting in is illusory- based on the version of me I whitewash, and hope is good enough. It’s taste is bland, missing the complexity of flavor belonging brings. It’s a frail whisper of hope to pass under the radar of those who might harm me, but never actually being fully seen and accepted. At times, I’ve craved the allure of fitting in, only to taste it and find it can’t even begin to satisfy the way belonging does. Belonging is warm and cozy, full of flavor. There is always more to share, an open door, chairs ready for others to join. I can sing at belonging’s table. Dance, create, be silly, be angry, be messy, be assertive and take charge, or sit silently and rest. Belonging offers me the sacred gift of being known and shows me how to offer that to others, too.

Belonging says, “I see you and know that your story is full and complex, just like you. I can’t wait to learn more about you. I realize I may have hurt you or added to your pain, and I want to know and do better, so you can belong, too. You can sit with me.”

from the author - Diana Frazier

Born and raised in the PNW, Diana (she/her) has always been passionate about writing, justice, singing, and forming meaningful connections with others. She is currently involved with organizations seeking POC and queer rights. When not community organizing, she can be found spending time with her partner and kids, reading about new plants and animals, and thrifting with her teens.