Say My Name, Say My Name

I realized the other day how much I say Henry's name. Not just when he's in trouble, with the shocked stage whisper: "Henry Oscar McCannell." But when I see him first thing in the morning. When it's time to take a nap. When he says, "Mommy?" ("Mama" just disappeared and I already miss it). When I make up songs about him. I say his name so much that when I call him anything else (Honey, Pumpkin Pie, Silly Monkey, etc.) he says, "No, I'm Henry."

But, I guess what brought this to my attention was the realization of how infrequently I hear my own name. And when I do it's rarely when someone is talking to me, but more likely about me. I'll catch Jared on the phone making plans with his family and saying he's going to check with me. The girls call me "Mrs. McCannell" which still doesn't sound like my name, so that doesn't count. Adults don't usually greet each other by name, but the cafeteria is full of "Hi Henry"s when we walk in.

In San Francisco, with my mother and father and brother, it felt like they said my name a lot. In a good way. And each time it was a brief jolt of shock, followed by comfort. Like when it's really sticky hot out and a wisp of wind brushes across your arms and shoulders. Unexpected and lingering. I'm reminded of my mom telling me how older people don't get touched very much. People stop hugging them or holding their hand. My mom used to rub my grandmother's back when she sat next to her. And I try to do this with Henry, holding his feet, kneading his legs and smoothing his hair. Hearing my name from my family is like that. My father, with one arm around my shoulders, saying, "Kelli, it's so good to see you." My mother, pushing my face into her chest and thumping my back, "Kelli, I've missed you." My brother, leaning down from the upstairs of his apartment "Kelli, do you want lemonade?"

When I worked at a movie theater in college, I used to get annoyed at customers who'd use my name. "Hello, uh, Kelli, this popcorn is stale." "Excuse me, Kelli, the theater is too cold." "Hi, Kelli, would you recommend the hot dogs?" But they didn't know me, they didn't count. They didn't get to pretend we are intimate and throw out my name like it's natural. To avoid their stranger-Kelli-usage, I'd wear someone else's nametag and smile when they said the wrong name. It was my little bite of enjoyment.

I've watched enough cop shows to know that using someone's name is a technique in familiarity. Something to make serial killers relate to their victims. A word to keep someone from jumping off a building. What Jason Bourne always wanted to know about himself. And psychology is silly in that way. How applicable it is to everything. We think we are above techniques of name repetition, personality mirroring, and never breaking off a handshake. But when people we care about use our words back to us, say our name or put a hand on our arm (in a non-creeper way), it works. We feel paid attention to. Touched.