What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet
Our housekeeper has taken to calling me “Doña Ana”. Every time I hear it, I cringe. I have told her repeatedly that calling me “Ana”‘, my given name, would suffice. Still, as if on a mission to torture me, she continues to call me “Doña” with a smile on her face.
In my culture, being called “Doña” is a sign of respect. A respect usually given to married women. My mother is “Doña”. I, on the other hand, have always been an “Ana”, “Anita”‘ or just “Annush”. Who I am has always been tied up to that tiny name.
Hugh and I have had trouble defining what we are to each other these days.
Back when we first started dating, we were friends. Then, as we became “Facebook official”, we became boyfriend and girlfriend. It was a title I liked. Although in our youth we use those terms to give someone special standing, for us it was a light and fluffy word to define a relationship that though light and fluffy, gave us rights and responsibilities.
So we have talked about what we are, what we are supposed to be, and what society feels we should be. We acknowledge that even though we look towards the future together and have shared hopes and dreams, at this point we are merely charting the course. And what you call the person who charts the course with you is a partner in crime.
We are each other’s partner in crime. Whatever we do, we are in it together.
This doesn’t make me “Doña Ana”, but the trusty sidekick of my bestest friend.