The race of names

When I did the “Desconcertos” with António Zambujo, César Mourão and Miguel Araújo, one of the moments of the show consisted of calling someone from the audience to the stage, placing him in the center of a giant frame and, while César and Zambas were improvising without ever talking to the guest, Miguel and I wrote a song, trying to guess what his profession was, where he came from and, of course, his name.

In the first show I got the name of the boy right and that he was from Costa da Caparica. This last assumption was quite easy because he was wearing a surf t-shirt but, the name, that was already more bizarre. I still think about it today. Could it be that when we are given a name, our body and even our personality are molded to it? How does someone look like Zé? What is the true influence of our name in our lives? When I was a kid, they often called me “Isabel” and, when I corrected them, they always replied: “Sorry, you really look like Isabel.” But what does an Isabel’s face look like? Do they all have the same? And more importantly, did I get the wrong name at birth?

This issue becomes even more important when we have to choose the names of our children. There is always someone in the family who says things like “Oh Rita no! Rita was a girl in my class whom I didn’t like at all.” Or worse, there are men who give the argument that gives me the most chills: “Oh Vera no! Vera was a girl in my class who dated (light version) with everyone.” It’s obviously all wrong with this observation, but for now let’s focus only on the idea of the name, which the chronicle of sexist comments was a few weeks ago. Do we really think that with the name comes a personality? When my husband and I decided to name one of our daughters Camila, my parents’ generation was in shock: “Camila? Like Camila Parker Bowles?” Hmm… Yes, and like 20% of Brazilian women.

My mother has an even stranger conviction than this that we have become our name. She thinks, really believes, that people are just like their dogs, physically, of course. It’s all in her head because sometimes we see a man walking around his Chihuahua and my mother immediately says: “See? That’s what I say: just like it.” When I comment to my husband about my mother’s problem, he tells me: “I understand. Each person looks like a specific breed. You are an Afghan Greyhound.” How so? Do I look like Isabel or an Afghan Greyhound? Or an Afghan Hound named Isabel?

Stop now! Don’t do what I did. Don’t search for the breed on google. I was bedridden for a week with a box of tissues. I leave you with this photo that yes, it could be me at 15 years old ready to go out to the “Garage”, with my hair straightened, an exaggerated parting on the side, bangs in front of my eyes, and a necklace of those elastic bands that were glued to the middle of the neck.

Well, to end this rambling without any interest or relevance, I leave you with an important piece of information that I chose to omit at the beginning. We made 7 more “Disconcerts” and I never got the name of who was inside the frame right again.