Soapbox

What’s in a Name?

So I’ve got this kid…only not so much a kid, anymore.

Once again it is summer-camp time. This year my son decided that, instead of going to good old YMCA Camp Willson, he wanted to try something different.
We went to a special "Summer Fair" this spring to check out the different possibilities. The room was packed with tables from various groups and organizations with information and displays about their programs.
"Oh look here Stephen, there’s a camp where you get to work on a farm…and here’s one where you go to Canada and canoe for 2 weeks.." I said.
"Hey, here’s something called "The Summer Institute for the Gifted"! What do you think?" his Dad asked.

Not much, apparently. Stephen ignored us and, giving the displays only a passing glance, wandered off by himself. I wondered if anything was going to catch his fancy here, or if we would have to talk him into something. But a few minutes later, he was at my side, pushing some papers into my hands.
"Look what I found, Mom! Look! I want to go here!"
Wow, something he’s excited about! I allowed myself to be towed off through the crowd, and soon was standing before a display for summer camp at The Wilds.
Of course.

The Wilds is a unique and wonderful place in central Ohio. It consists of 14 square miles of reclaimed strip mine, now turned into rolling grassy hills dotted with small lakes. Large tracts have been fenced in and where bulldozers once roamed you can now find giraffe, rhinocerous and symitar-horned orax, to name just a few. They breed and study unique and endangered animals in as close to natural surroundings as you’re going to find in the mid-west. Our family visited there a few years ago and were very impressed with their program.
And now, for the first year, they were offering week-long study programs at The Wilds, and, as naturally as day follows night, Stephen wanted to go. I glanced through their brochure: habitat maintenance, making a naturalist’s field guide, dendrology, herpetology, orienteering, navigating by the stars, pond life, grassland birds…holy cow! Stephen’s dream camp! Instead of fishing and swatting mosquitos at Camp Willson, he could study ictheology and entemology! And what an opportunity for a Boy Of Science, who recently announced that he wants to be a nature photographer, like his grandad!

So of course we signed him up, and yesterday we packed the car and headed east through the hazy July heat to The Wilds.

We weren’t really sure what to expect of the facilities, so I had several bases covered. I packed a fan, in case there was electricity in their cabins, and mosquito netting in case he found himself in something a lot more primative. We brought a collapsable camp chair, 2 kinds of bug repellent, assorted field guides, sketch book, pen knife, water bottle, 3 rolls of film and a fanny pack for carrying these items out into the field with the rhinos, or wherever he ends up.
The camp area was quite nice. The cabins there are called "yerts", after the round, felt or hide huts of asian nomadic tribes. These yurts are built up on nice decks, with wooden doors, a wood frames under heavy canvas walls, screened windows and a skylight to let the starlight in and the heat out.

Since this was the first session of the first year of camp, Stephen is one of only 5 kids at camp. We met the councelor for the boys and hauled his gear to the yurt. Stephen picked a bunk and I began depositing his belongings on and around his bed. Behind me, the councelor was talking to my son.
"So," he said, " are you Stephen, or do you go by Steve, or what?"
"I prefer Steve" said my child.
Yea-what? Who?

Slowly, feigning casualness, I turned to look at this child who has been firmly and definitively Stephen for the last 14 years, 3 weeks and 2 days that the Earth has been turning. He was looking right at me, waiting to see what my reaction would be. His gaze was level and determined, with just the slightest hint of widened eyes, a silent plea of, "please Mom, don’t say anything!" After ascertaining that my jaw wasn’t hanging open, I gave him a trace of a nod and turned back to the bunk, my mind reeling.

A few minutes later I walked across the field to the bath house and met his father at the door. We both grabbed for each other.
"Did you ever hear him say…?"
"Since when has he…?"
"Holy cow! I almost swallowed my gum! "
"Steve?!"
"Steve?"
Oh well, it is his name. We both agreed that we would do our best to respect his wishes, however unexpected, and call him Steve. During the next 20 minutes before we left, I succeeded probably 40% of the time. It was just so weird!

"Ted, I"m not sure I can call him Steve!" I said as we drove away. "Stephen isn’t just his name, it’s who he is! Who is this person; Steve?"
"No kidding! It freaks me out! Why do you suppose he decided to change? I guess it shouldn’t be a big deal, really…"
"No, it is a huge deal. " I insisted. "Didn’t you hear that giant "thwack" sound back there in the tent? That was the sound of apron strings being cut! That was the sound of a kid taking a giant step back from his parents and saying, ‘I can make my own decisions about things, even my name.’ "
"I guess so. Steve, huh? My son, Steve…" his father mused as we drove off.

I wonder if he decided on the spur of the moment to experiment with a new name, like a new persona. We know who Stephen is- he’s honest and smart and intense and kind of geek-y. Perhaps, with a new name, he might be a new person. Perhaps ‘Steve’ is more out-going and a cut-up, or maybe he likes sports. After all, since no one at camp has ever met him before, he sort of has a blank slate.
We’ll see if, when he gets home, he is still Steve. Maybe he’ll just use that name for school and camp and work and stuff, and the family can go one calling him Stephen, like we always have. Stephen, the name we selected so lovingly and carefully before he was born.
Then again, maybe I’d better practice using his "preferred" name.

So I’ve got this kid…and apparently, his name is Steve.