"Say what you have to say, and not what you ought."
~ Henry David Thoreau



Saturday, March 3, 2018

Liberation

The year I turned 40 I gave myself a new name. When I was born and for some time after, days or maybe a week or more, I didn't have a name. On my original birth certificate my name was recorded as Female Christiansen. Eventually, my parents decided on my name. A month after my birth, my name, Keicha Christiansen, was officially bestowed on me by my father in a Mormon religious ceremony known as a baby blessing. I wasn't given a middle name since my father decided they weren't necessary for girls, as we would eventually marry and have a third name anyway, or some such similar logic. In our family, the naming of the children was a decision mostly made by my father. Sure, my mom had some say, but the decision was ultimately his. In fact, my mom tells the story of her surprise at my younger sister Julie's baby blessing when my dad gave her the name of Julie Ann. For some reason his previous logic in regard to naming his daughters was thrown out when he named her. My mom found out about her youngest daughter's middle name, in church, with the rest of the congregation. Even now I shake my head in disbelief and wonder at my strong-willed mom's submissiveness to my father's authority during the years they were married. 

In the years that followed, my name changed several times due to marriage. I became Keicha Nielsen, followed by Keicha Chapman, and then Keicha Ballif. I changed my name without question each time I was married. It was just something women do, which is a weird tradition when you think about it, at least to me. A name is such a fundamental part of a person's identity. Now, I find it odd that so many women so casually discard their family's last name to take on the last name of their husband's family. 

Changing my name at 40 to what I thought it should be, Keicha Marie Christiansen, was surprisingly liberating. I had always been referred to as Keicha Marie by many in my family, and had I been given a middle name that would have been it. So I assembled all of the necessary paperwork to change what my father had decided was sufficient for me 40 years before. When I called to ask him to sign the paperwork allowing for my name change, I was surprised at his attitude. He did it begrudgingly, and let it be known that in some way he considered what I was doing disrespectful to him and his authority. Looking back, I realize what a courageous thing that was for me to do. I've always feared my father's judgement and have spent much of my life trying to avoid making him angry at me. 

For the last year, I've avoided my father completely. The reasons are plentiful, and complicated. It's been more than a year since we've spoken. My sister and I often talk about our father and our complex feelings about him. We've both decided that for now, it's mentally and emotionally healthier and safer for us to not have any contact with him. It may always be that way. 

My childhood, though often happy, was also fraught with conflict and abuse. The stories of the physical abuse I witnessed my father inflict on my mom are ones I will leave for her to share. The emotional scars I carry from being a witness to it, along with suffering from his emotional abuse, are mine to talk about. I've long resisted talking about this mostly hidden part of my history out of fear, but also due to shame, guilt and not wanting to hurt others in my family by speaking my truth. Even now, as I write this, my heart is racing and my palms are sweaty. There is a part of me that will probably always feel like an insecure young girl seeking her father's approval, constantly striving to avoid being the object of his wrath or disappointment. 

Today I finished reading a recently released book by Tara Westover called Educated: A Memoir. Her story and history is very different than mine, although there were enough similarities in some aspects of our upbringing that reading it left me feeling somewhat emotionally unsettled, but also filled with gratitude and respect for her. She is also estranged from her father. When I read this paragraph she wrote, I felt a shock of recognition. "But what has come between me and my father is more than time or distance. It is a change in the self. I am not the child father raised, but he is the father who raised her."

I've spent much of the last year trying to make peace with my history and my relationship with my father. There is much I love about him. His good side is delightful. He can be funny, charming and extremely interesting to talk to. During his life he's pursued many different hobbies including marathon running, backpacking, macrame, and photography. He is intelligent and well-read. He was an obedient, caring son, especially in the final years of both of his parent's lives. He has been extremely generous to me, and has been there for me many times when I needed help. Yet, he's also deeply hurt people I love, both physically and emotionally. I find his outward devotion to LDS religious principles disgusting and hypocritical given all that I know about him. His lifelong emotional abuse and manipulation of his children is so twisted that sometimes I've thought that physical abuse would be easier to heal from. His love and acceptance always came with a very steep price. Last year I finally decided I was no longer willing to pay that price. 

I haven't written much here for a year or more for many reasons, a primary one being that my writing voice felt strangled and afraid to write about what I've been experiencing. I didn't want to hurt or offend others, or create ill will with my extended family. And, yes, I am also afraid of my father. I fear him reading this and his reaction. I was, and still am, deeply afraid of speaking my truth and sharing my journey. Today I've taken the first small steps away from my fear. 

3 comments:

  1. After all these years guess what we do have many things in common on this name issue. This is the short version of my so similar story. When I filed for my passport, I found I was listed as baby Mindrum. Not surprising my mother was never a stickler for details. So to get my passport I needed two forms of ID one being my school transcripts. Easy enough right, well not so, when I arrived like the baggage to Utah. I had been staying with my sisters in Iowa I spent most of third grade going from new school to new school. More introductions by myself at least four times that grade. When I arrived in Utah again while introducing myself I decided on my own I should use my step Dad's last name Dance. And for some unknown reason I also became Peter. Two months of school and the Elementary called my mom to say they were having trouble getting Peter's school records. Mom said who? So began the long list of issues I had with my step father, my being called Peter Dance did not strike him funny. As for my passport many years later my school transcripts had Peter Dance lined out and that of course added another level of complexity for my passport. Also my mother's full name was Ester Clarissa Krogstad Overland Mindrum Dance. She out lived all of her husbands. Take care Ordell

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  2. Keicha, this is a beautiful post. Brave, courageous, honest and as you referred to in your title, liberating. It can take a long while to find ourselves, our true selves and longer still to tell the world and specifically those we feel will be most upset by it. But to not be able to say is to be untrue to ourselves, I think -- whether we say it aloud to one or many. I applaud you, Keicha Marie. You have found yourself, your name, your voice. And that, my friend, is a gift.

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  3. I applaud you for your courage, Keicha. What a huge step. It's often difficult to speak the truth, mainly for all the reasons you have mentioned. For me it's probably hurting others and making them angry. It's a difficult topic.
    I changed my name when I married rather late in life and it was a no-brainer for me. My last name isn't what I identify with (but my first one) and I was actually happy to get rid of my last name I had from birth as it reminded me too much of many unhappy years. Of course this is very superficial, the unhappy years are not undone with that, but I don't always cringe when I hear my full name.

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