I was born Melina Kathryn Taylor.
My parents, perhaps as a symbol of their love, or maybe in just a spark of creativity decided to combine their names (Regina and Melvin) to christen their firstborn daughter. And at least they didn’t go with Regvin.
My mom claims Kathryn should have been my first name. She says she fought for it as tribute to the matriarch of her side of the family, my great aunt Kathryn, but that my father didn’t want me to have a “slutty” nickname like Katie. How this made sense to him I will never know as every Katie I’ve met has been amazing, beautiful, kind — kudos to them if they were gettin’ some while doing it.
Besides, “Melina Kathryn” is actually a pretty good name. As long as I can remember I’ve always been the only Melina. Every year I could count on their being Sarahs, Jessicas, Emilys, and yes, even Katies. But there was only one Melina.
Even in my singularity, something just seemed… off.
As early as kindergarten I started experimenting with changing my name. At first it was just variations that would be easier to spell or pronounce since apparently even a name like Melina was too foreign for the small rural towns I grew up in. What if I went by Em? Or Lina? Maybe Kathryn? Kat? Kitty?
My mom bought me the children’s book Chysanthemum, about a young mouse learning to embrace her long and lovely name, and eventually I too accepted my moniker. Like a pendulum I became fiercely in favor of it, allowing no nickname to eclipse the lilting syllables I now loved so dearly.
But with my first name now cemented in my identity, the attention just shifted to my last name. Taylor. Common. No real connection. My father was adopted and even though I loved my grandparents dearly even before I knew about the adoption I never quite fit in. The huge reunions made me feel isolated and for lack of a better word, trashy.
The Taylors were an old Tennessee family, incredibly Southern and deeply religious. The homestead had been in the family for generations, and the house although not very big still held the stately power of something that has stood the test of time. My grandparents even got married in that house, and my parents followed suit. Growing up I even assumed I would someday do the same (but that’s another story).
And though I owe a lot to my Taylor family, I don’t feel any real connection to the name itself. It sounds nice. It fits well with my name. But two decades of unrest led me to believe this was more than just a phase.
As I grew older I looked for ways to change my name. Maybe I’d get married and become Mrs. Melina Rogers, Melina Anderson, Melina Goldblum. Maybe I should just drop the Taylor and be Melina Kathryn. I looked to other surnames in my family tree, thinking I would know it when I found it, but no such luck.
When my parents divorced, my mother kept her married name. Perhaps out of respect for their dead marriage, to match her children, or just because she likes the way it rolls off the tongue. As the years went on and my relationship with my father became more and more complex, the yearning to to become someone else really took hold. Countless conversations with friends about possible surnames. Endless google searches. Grasping at the names of my favorite characters, writers, artists, celebrities and trying them on for size.
But nothing fit.
Towards the end of college I became certain that I wanted to change my name. No longer a vague feeling I became immensely interested in name change legislature and processes. I read articles from those in favor of, and those who regretted, name changes. I began to envy the confidence with which people stood by their names, and even more so those who were self-named.
More and more of my friends were people who did not go by their birth names. And they were all such beautiful names. They made sense, they fit. They somehow distilled their new identities into succinct syllables that encapsulated their ideal self. And I wanted that. I wanted it so badly.
I shelved my naming conquest, started dating my amazing partner, finished school, and moved across the country. Every now and then it would creep back into consciousness, and I’d write down a few options, google some surnames, slip into someone else’s signature for just a moment before dismissing the idea entirely.
That is until a few months ago.
I had been leaning towards floral, nature-inspired names for a while. My work has always had a botanical inspiration, and I’ve always been an avid gardener and plant enthusiast. As much as I had wrestled with my name and identity the only times I felt truly myself was immersed in nature. Trees don’t care what you call yourself. Springs sing to you no matter your surname. And suddenly it hit me: Flowers.
Immediately I laughed it off it seemed too on the nose. Flowers? Prepare to be remembered as that weird hippie girl forever. That or people will assume you just REALLY loved Scott Pilgrim. But the more I sat on it, the more it seemed right. Flowers, the verb, was exactly the call to action I needed for myself. Grow. Change. Bloom. Thrive.
As a surname, I found out it can literally mean flowers, blooming, etc., but was also an occupational surname for archers! Those who shot the flo, or arrows, would be known as flowers. Another origin has it as a given surname to those who were especially beloved, talented, kind, or beautiful. They were the flower of their families, the flower of chivalry, etc. The positivity radiating from it just seemed to grow and grow (pun unintended).
Dipping my toes into this new persona I dropped Taylor from social media. I’ve introduced myself as Melina Flowers. Sprinkling it in here and there hoping this time it sticks.
And although I have yet to schedule a court date to begin any legal changes, I’m optimistic. While I do worry that many of my family may initially feel hurt, or insulted should I pursue legal changes (especially my now estranged father), I feel like this is the right direction, and I hope that if/when I show them a driver’s license or business card with Melina Flowers emblazoned across it, they’ll grow to love it too.
