What's in a Name?

 

My parents named me Karen June. I don’t mind Karen (even though someone decided it should be used to describe an unreasonable woman). But June always seemed out of place, like a borrowed word that didn’t quite belong to me. I sometimes wondered if my parents just liked the way it sounded with my first name, or if, perhaps, I was named after someone else.

I’ll never know for certain. My mother passed away when I was twenty-three, long before it occurred to me to ask. My father’s been gone for nearly three decades now, and I never asked him either.

And yet, today something changed.

At the airport, standing in a TSA checkpoint line, an agent looked down at my passport and commented: “June. That’s my daughter’s name.”  That caught my attention, and curious, I asked, “How did you decide on that name?”

“She was named after my father. He was a Junior, so we call her June,” he replied.

For a moment, the world went still. The hustle and bustle of the terminal faded as I absorbed his words. My father’s name was Sherman Junior Thomas. Could it be that my middle name was chosen for the same reason? As a silent nod to him? Was that possible? I felt the sting of tears forming and blinked them away.

Did I get emotional because I finally understood why someone might name their child June—and wondered if that was the reason my parents chose it for me? Or maybe it was because it felt like I’d stumbled upon an answer to one of those lingering questions in life—where simply having an answer feels like a gift, no matter what it is.

I’ll never know the real reason my parents decided upon “June”, but today, I’m considered something I’ve never thought of before. Perhaps the name “June” was a nod to my dad. I think I’ll choose to believe that.

After all….in the absence of any other reason, why not?