Our daughters are named Kyle and Cameran. People are often confused, but we don't care.
Our daughters are Kyle and Cameran, and our second son is Brooks, yes, with an "s" at the end.
I'll never know how life would have been different if we'd gone traditional, and I don't care.
"We aren't even Irish," my Sicilian grandmother said as we perused baby names for our third child.
Naming a tiny human is difficult because it's a name they'll wear for their entire lives, and everyone has an opinion.
In truth, I was just humoring her. Looking through names wasn't necessary because my husband and I had already picked one for our daughter: Kyle—a traditionally Irish name that we'd chosen for my husband and my grandmother's husband, both partly Irish.
"Kyle," she said, and threw her hands in the air. "It means handsome."
I understood what really bothered her was not the origin of the name we'd chosen, but the traditional gender associated with it.
I countered, saying, "It means 'narrow' or 'straight' and it's a unisex name. Her full name will be Kyle Marie."
"Why can't it just be something simple?" my grandmother asked in a final plea. "People will get confused and think she's a boy. You already have a Cameran for a girl. Isn't that enough?"
I named my daughters Cameran and Kyle—it's had its challenges
Several months later, despite my grandmother's protests and warnings, we sat in the hospital room and informed the woman who came to fill out the birth certificate of our child's name.
I suppose I should have known when she said, "Kyle or Kylie," that confusion would color my little girl's name for years to come.
While I adore my daughters' names, Cameran and Kyle, they have not come without consequence.
"Hi, I'm calling with Kyle's test results," the pediatrician's office would say. "He does not have the flu." They hadn't looked at her chart.
"She," I said more often than I care to count.
"I thought you had two boys," another mother said when my girls' names were announced at a school event, and they stood up.
The most frustrating part was not the mistakes. I understood those because I knew I had gone against the norm and broken tradition. It was people's constant need to fix what was not broken.
"Kyle" became "Kylie," as in, "You are Kylie's mother." People often attempted to correct what I'm sure they thought must have been a typo.
I named my son Brooks — yes, with an "s" at the end
When I gave birth to my son, the confusion continued. "Brooks," my grandmother said, "sounds like a girl's name." Here we go again, I remember thinking.
My husband, who was deeply involved with helping choose all of our kids' names, liked Brooks because it belonged to the NHL player, Brooks Laich. He was not only a famous hockey player but also good citizen.
In 2010, Laich pulled over to help a woman change her flat tire after coming off a playoff series loss. To my husband, a college hockey player, this act of kindness meant more than Laich's NHL status, which was a big part of why we chose the name for our son.
As Brooks got older, the confusion continued. Brook, people would say, sure, they'd heard the name wrong.
Even the act of dropping the "s" from his name did not help quell their need to make sense of a "girl" name for a boy. We were back to where we had been with his sisters.
I suppose we understood the confusion. We had created it. I guess we could have gone the traditional route we had with our oldest, Zachary. No one ever confused him for a girl and attempted to correct his name.
I wonder how life would have been different
In truth, I have wondered what doctor's appointments and school events would have looked like if we'd gone with more traditionally feminine names like Taylor and Olivia instead of Cameran and Kyle. If Brooks had been Steven or Matthew, would things have gone differently?
I will never know. I also realize that I simply don't care—I never did. I continue to correct people, in the kindest way possible, though I have stopped justifying my choice with, "Yes, we like boy names for girls and girl names for boys," or "I understand, Kyle is a traditionally male name."
After all, while Kyle is predominantly used for boys, it is unisex, as is Brooks. Now that our kids are older, ranging from 12 to 20, I know we picked the names that best represent them, whether it's traditional or not, and I'm more than OK with that.
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Yahoo
a day ago
- Yahoo
Our daughters are named Kyle and Cameran. People are often confused, but we don't care.
We went traditional with our first son's name, but chose unisex names for both daughters and our second son. Our daughters are Kyle and Cameran, and our second son is Brooks, yes, with an "s" at the end. I'll never know how life would have been different if we'd gone traditional, and I don't care. "We aren't even Irish," my Sicilian grandmother said as we perused baby names for our third child. Naming a tiny human is difficult because it's a name they'll wear for their entire lives, and everyone has an opinion. In truth, I was just humoring her. Looking through names wasn't necessary because my husband and I had already picked one for our daughter: Kyle—a traditionally Irish name that we'd chosen for my husband and my grandmother's husband, both partly Irish. "Kyle," she said, and threw her hands in the air. "It means handsome." I understood what really bothered her was not the origin of the name we'd chosen, but the traditional gender associated with it. I countered, saying, "It means 'narrow' or 'straight' and it's a unisex name. Her full name will be Kyle Marie." "Why can't it just be something simple?" my grandmother asked in a final plea. "People will get confused and think she's a boy. You already have a Cameran for a girl. Isn't that enough?" Several months later, despite my grandmother's protests and warnings, we sat in the hospital room and informed the woman who came to fill out the birth certificate of our child's name. I suppose I should have known when she said, "Kyle or Kylie," that confusion would color my little girl's name for years to come. While I adore my daughters' names, Cameran and Kyle, they have not come without consequence. "Hi, I'm calling with Kyle's test results," the pediatrician's office would say. "He does not have the flu." They hadn't looked at her chart. "She," I said more often than I care to count. "I thought you had two boys," another mother said when my girls' names were announced at a school event, and they stood up. The most frustrating part was not the mistakes. I understood those because I knew I had gone against the norm and broken tradition. It was people's constant need to fix what was not broken. "Kyle" became "Kylie," as in, "You are Kylie's mother." People often attempted to correct what I'm sure they thought must have been a typo. When I gave birth to my son, the confusion continued. "Brooks," my grandmother said, "sounds like a girl's name." Here we go again, I remember thinking. My husband, who was deeply involved with helping choose all of our kids' names, liked Brooks because it belonged to the NHL player, Brooks Laich. He was not only a famous hockey player but also good citizen. In 2010, Laich pulled over to help a woman change her flat tire after coming off a playoff series loss. To my husband, a college hockey player, this act of kindness meant more than Laich's NHL status, which was a big part of why we chose the name for our son. As Brooks got older, the confusion continued. Brook, people would say, sure, they'd heard the name wrong. Even the act of dropping the "s" from his name did not help quell their need to make sense of a "girl" name for a boy. We were back to where we had been with his sisters. I suppose we understood the confusion. We had created it. I guess we could have gone the traditional route we had with our oldest, Zachary. No one ever confused him for a girl and attempted to correct his name. In truth, I have wondered what doctor's appointments and school events would have looked like if we'd gone with more traditionally feminine names like Taylor and Olivia instead of Cameran and Kyle. If Brooks had been Steven or Matthew, would things have gone differently? I will never know. I also realize that I simply don't care—I never did. I continue to correct people, in the kindest way possible, though I have stopped justifying my choice with, "Yes, we like boy names for girls and girl names for boys," or "I understand, Kyle is a traditionally male name." After all, while Kyle is predominantly used for boys, it is unisex, as is Brooks. Now that our kids are older, ranging from 12 to 20, I know we picked the names that best represent them, whether it's traditional or not, and I'm more than OK with that. Read the original article on Business Insider
Business Insider
a day ago
- Business Insider
Our daughters are named Kyle and Cameran. People are often confused, but we don't care.
We went traditional with our first son's name, but chose unisex names for both daughters and our second son. Our daughters are Kyle and Cameran, and our second son is Brooks, yes, with an "s" at the end. I'll never know how life would have been different if we'd gone traditional, and I don't care. "We aren't even Irish," my Sicilian grandmother said as we perused baby names for our third child. Naming a tiny human is difficult because it's a name they'll wear for their entire lives, and everyone has an opinion. In truth, I was just humoring her. Looking through names wasn't necessary because my husband and I had already picked one for our daughter: Kyle—a traditionally Irish name that we'd chosen for my husband and my grandmother's husband, both partly Irish. "Kyle," she said, and threw her hands in the air. "It means handsome." I understood what really bothered her was not the origin of the name we'd chosen, but the traditional gender associated with it. I countered, saying, "It means 'narrow' or 'straight' and it's a unisex name. Her full name will be Kyle Marie." "Why can't it just be something simple?" my grandmother asked in a final plea. "People will get confused and think she's a boy. You already have a Cameran for a girl. Isn't that enough?" I named my daughters Cameran and Kyle—it's had its challenges Several months later, despite my grandmother's protests and warnings, we sat in the hospital room and informed the woman who came to fill out the birth certificate of our child's name. I suppose I should have known when she said, "Kyle or Kylie," that confusion would color my little girl's name for years to come. While I adore my daughters' names, Cameran and Kyle, they have not come without consequence. "Hi, I'm calling with Kyle's test results," the pediatrician's office would say. "He does not have the flu." They hadn't looked at her chart. "She," I said more often than I care to count. "I thought you had two boys," another mother said when my girls' names were announced at a school event, and they stood up. The most frustrating part was not the mistakes. I understood those because I knew I had gone against the norm and broken tradition. It was people's constant need to fix what was not broken. "Kyle" became "Kylie," as in, "You are Kylie's mother." People often attempted to correct what I'm sure they thought must have been a typo. I named my son Brooks — yes, with an "s" at the end When I gave birth to my son, the confusion continued. "Brooks," my grandmother said, "sounds like a girl's name." Here we go again, I remember thinking. My husband, who was deeply involved with helping choose all of our kids' names, liked Brooks because it belonged to the NHL player, Brooks Laich. He was not only a famous hockey player but also good citizen. In 2010, Laich pulled over to help a woman change her flat tire after coming off a playoff series loss. To my husband, a college hockey player, this act of kindness meant more than Laich's NHL status, which was a big part of why we chose the name for our son. As Brooks got older, the confusion continued. Brook, people would say, sure, they'd heard the name wrong. Even the act of dropping the "s" from his name did not help quell their need to make sense of a "girl" name for a boy. We were back to where we had been with his sisters. I suppose we understood the confusion. We had created it. I guess we could have gone the traditional route we had with our oldest, Zachary. No one ever confused him for a girl and attempted to correct his name. I wonder how life would have been different In truth, I have wondered what doctor's appointments and school events would have looked like if we'd gone with more traditionally feminine names like Taylor and Olivia instead of Cameran and Kyle. If Brooks had been Steven or Matthew, would things have gone differently? I will never know. I also realize that I simply don't care—I never did. I continue to correct people, in the kindest way possible, though I have stopped justifying my choice with, "Yes, we like boy names for girls and girl names for boys," or "I understand, Kyle is a traditionally male name." After all, while Kyle is predominantly used for boys, it is unisex, as is Brooks. Now that our kids are older, ranging from 12 to 20, I know we picked the names that best represent them, whether it's traditional or not, and I'm more than OK with that.
Boston Globe
3 days ago
- Boston Globe
Fanny Howe, acclaimed writer of poetry and novels, dies at 84
And she did in 'At the beginning, I would write a novel and then some poetry,' she said in Advertisement Ms. Howe, who both drew and departed from a family literary heritage that reached deep into Boston Brahmin and Irish traditions, died Tuesday in hospice care. Health issues had emerged and escalated quickly over the past couple of weeks upon her return home from a visit to Ireland, where she attended the opening of one of her late mother's plays. Get Starting Point A guide through the most important stories of the morning, delivered Monday through Friday. Enter Email Sign Up She was 84 and had lived in Cambridge for many years, after decades filled with a series of moves that could be as peripatetic as her writing. 'I think in the widest sense, she's really kind of a poet's poet,' said the Advertisement Danzy Senna, a daughter of Ms. Howe who is In 2009, the Poetry Foundation honored Ms. Howe's lifetime achievement with its prestigious Five of her novels were collected into a single volume titled 'Radical Love.' Some book critics suggested those novels were at least adjacent to autobiography. Ms. Howe sidestepped that description, writing instead in an author's note: 'I hope this collection will contribute to a literary tradition that resists distinctions between poetry and fiction as one way to save history from the doom of duality.' Taking on subjects that ranged from the complexities of families to politics and race relations in Boston and anywhere else, Ms. Howe 'spent her life interested in the lowly, those who were left out. She never looked away,' said 'She was truly one of the great poets of Boston and Cambridge,' he said. 'Her work is of the highest order.' In poems and prose Ms. Howe 'had a terrific ear — the sound of her work is great. If you read it aloud, it's wonderful,' said Advertisement Ms. Howe, she added, 'had both an interesting awareness of human failing, including her own, and a kind of endless interest in the world.' Sometimes called an experimental writer — 'She was funny, and she was fun, and kind of mischievous,' Armantrout said. 'I remember her laugh,' she said, adding that at gatherings of friends, Ms. Howe would 'sit at one end of the table and laugh raucously.' Fanny Quincy Howe was born in Buffalo on Oct. 15, 1940, and moved with her mother and older sister to Cambridge soon after, while her father served in the Army during World War II. Her mother, Mary Manning, was an Irish playwright, novelist, and actress. A founder of The Poets' Theatre in Cambridge, she counted among her close friends the Nobel Prize-winning writer Samuel Beckett. Ms. Howe's father, Her older sister, Susan Howe of Guilford, Conn., Advertisement Already keenly observant as a young girl, Ms. Howe was attentive to the differences between her life and what others endured. 'As I began to see injustice close up, I was filled with a desire to understand what made people who had suffered for nothing want to go on living,' She added that she became 'uncomfortable with what was given to me as a birthright and what later came to be understood (by me and my culture) as meaning: White. White meant adult, condescending, cold, pale, driven, individualist, judging, and theoretical. White meant distant, detached, ironic, skeptical, ambitious, Protestant.' A rebellious young student who courted suspensions, Ms. Howe found her way to Stanford University, which she attended for three years without taking a degree. Ms. Howe's stellar writing led to teaching stints at Tufts University, Emerson College, and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology; Columbia, Yale, and Georgetown universities; Kenyon College and UC San Diego, where she retired as a professor emerita. After Ms. Howe's time at Stanford, her brief marriage to Frederick Delafield ended in divorce. Encouraged by her father to return to Boston, she was editing a literary magazine with Though Ms. Howe was born into Brahmin privilege, 'there was no trust fund,' she once wrote. Her years as a single mother included multiple jobs and residences, some shared with other single mothers and their children. Danzy Senna described that time as 'very bohemian, hardscrabble.' Advertisement 'She was a completely free person,' Senna said. 'I think she was handing the inheritance of freedom to us.' During those years, 'my most vivid memory of her is at her typewriter, just banging away at her poetry and novels and trying to block out the noise,' Senna said. While some critics make much of the fragmented, experimental nature of some of Ms. Howe's writing, 'the form was in some ways created by necessity,' her daughter said. 'I think it got more experimental because she was trying to be a writer with three children and no money — that's the experiment.' In addition to her daughter and two sisters, Ms. Howe leaves another daughter, A celebration of Ms. Howe's life and work will be announced. She converted to Catholicism as an adult and explored her relationship to faith in her writing. 'I was raised Protestant, or atheist, and I'd always felt sort of bereft in the world — like, 'Why be here?' Catholicism was a wonderful thing to come across when I was in such desperate straits,' she told The Paris Review. Ms. Howe's 'very savage generosity was really coming from a very spiritual loving place that was very political in a profound way,' the poet Eileen Myles said. Among the works in Ms. Howe's 'Selected Poems' is one titled 'In the Spirit There Are No Accidents,' which begins: 'God is already ahead and waiting: the future is full.' Advertisement She ends by writing: 'The land is an incarnation/like a hand on a hand on an arm asking do you know me ?' Bryan Marquard can be reached at
