What is in a Name?

What is in a name? It was 1973 and my parents did not agree about what to call me. My Dad was firm on naming me Mali.  Yes, like the country.  Not sure if he was influenced by their time living in Tunisia or why that name was on his radar? My Mom was set on calling me Torun, after a favourite playmate of her youth. Mom won but that is not where this story ends.

I think names influence our fate quite a bit. They shape our opportunities and future. Have you met a hedge fund manager named Tiffany? I have not. The name Torun is a wild card though and one that did not work for me until it did.

I was Torun until the age of 14. I did NOT wear the name with a badge of honor. It plagued me. It made me different in a world that Anna, Cecilia and Maja were the names du jour. Torun was converted into “Snorun” by my sister, 9 years my senior in age (not in maturity) which in Swedish basically means “snotface”. Kids in school quickly caught on and the bullying was off to the races. My name and the fact that my Dad was Norwegian was a lethal combo in the homogenous little neighbourhood that I grew up in. It made the target on my back quite loud. One would think this would not be so bad, that it could change for the better, it did not. Then we moved to America in 1984 and I foolishly thought that the name thing would go away. I had not properly been briefed.

My Dad who studied abroad and worked internationally did not properly run the scenarios with my name. At all. My last name before getting married was “Rekdal”. You just did it right? You said “Torun Rekdal” 3 times quick in your head. Yup, you got it: "Torn Rectal". Great fun for a 10-year old just off the boat from Sweden wearing overalls (I refused to wear anything else, probably a name trauma response) and with a 5 word vocabulary of English. The bloody Americans also love doing roll call every class, first thing. We had 9 periods (classes) per day so that was 45 times per week my name was called as “Torn Rectal”. 45 times per day of me turning bright red in shame whilst my classmates giggled. Fortunately the exoticness of me being Swedish and my increasing inability to handle bullshit left my bullies in Sweden. I did flourish socially despite my name in New York.

Fast forward to 1988. I had failed 9th grade, probably due to being "name traumatized" (yes, coining that now) in a big way for 4 years and the parental units were shipping me off to Boarding School in Sweden to solve the problem. To say I was pissed was an understatement. Not only did I have a crush on a young man with a questionable future, I had some of those friends that also were probably on the road to nowhere. My parents were destroying my life and I was going to answer up accordingly. (Mom, you were right on this one. Thank you. Not sure I ever truly told you it was the right decision to take ownership of my life at that point).

I arrived at Boarding School 1988 and confidently introduced myself as “Sarah”. Naturally it was questioned but I assuredly, like a pissed off 14 year old only can, said that the school had not processed my paper work correctly and that “Sarah” was indeed my middle name and the one I went by. When my parents rang a few days later, after properly celebrating my drop off with champagne, and asked for "Torun" they were told no-one by that name lived there. The age of Sarah was born and lasted for quite a while. Until Torun, like Sasha Fierce, returned with a vengeance. To be continued.