What's My Name?

It sounds like a simple question. The answer could be a nickname. It could be a maiden name/ married name. It could be the name on your birth certificate, or whatever name you changed it to. It could be an aka (criminals often have several forms of identification from different states under different names). It could be a dba (Better Call Saul; Saul Goodman). Or the answer could be, “that depends.”

“That depends” is the answer in my case.

If I were to die in America, in a state, let's say, with a same-day, no hassle policy regarding the purchase of firearms, I could easily be turned over to the Veterans Association for burial. I am a veteran of the U.S. Navy. That's what my fingerprints would show. I have no history with law enforcement. The name on my Navy file is Frederick James Ceely. They would probably mark my grave with the name on my Navy file. Just the thought of that disturbs me.

If I were to die in Thailand, which is much more likely, I would be processed under the name on my passport, which is my true name, Frederick Ceely.

Where did that James come from?

My mother was a practicing Catholic, on the outside anyway. Her true self was a burning cauldron of hate and fear, where I'm certain there was no room for religion of any kind. She was never evaluated by a mental health professional, and I will not attempt an amateur diagnosis here. There was definitely something radically wrong, however. Her problems created serious problems for those of us who were forced by circumstances to live with her. She was, for instance, a Gaslighter. You know the term, “to Gaslight,” taken from the motion picture, “Gaslight,” in which a husband with bad intentions creates a web of lies around his wife intending to make her believe that she is crazy. The truth to my mother was anything that would advance any of her Gaslighting schemes. These were often directed at her children.

I attended Catholic school, and I received five of the seven sacraments of the church, lacking only Holy Orders and the Last Rites. One that I did receive is called Confirmation, in which a seventh grader takes a “confirmation name,” recites the answers to a few questions, is then slapped by a bishop, and is thereby welcomed as a full member of the Catholic Church. I was still engaged in a desperate attempt to love my parents at the time, and to win their love in return, so I thought it would be in my favor to take my father's middle name, Jesse, as my Confirmation name, thus making me a true junior.

My mother had other ideas. She preferred that I take the name of her father, which was James. I resisted, briefly.

One day, insuring complete privacy in the house, my mother cornered me in our dining room and explained to me that by taking the Confirmation name James, I would actually be honoring my father's own choice of James as a confirmation name. “But you must never tell your father that I gave away his secret. He is very embarrassed that his middle name is 'Jesse James'.” I went along with it, knowing that it was bullshit. I never mentioned it to my father in all of his long life. This may, in fact, be the first time that I am mentioning it at all. I went along with my mother's wish because it was always easier to do so at the talking stage, rather than waiting for the screaming and the violence.

Then came the compounding error. I was told, by my mother, that my full, legal name was now Frederick James Ceely. Since I was not yet versed in the law, being, at the time, eleven years old, I began to use that name. I was Frederick James Ceely until the day that I got out of the Navy. The revelation of my actual name came at my Navy recruitment.

The recruiter was a weathered Boatswain's Mate who probably had a bottle of bourbon in his desk somewhere. There is a ton of paperwork to be done when joining the American military, and it took us a long time to write it all out. I was writing and signing, he was typing and explaining. Finally we came to the end of the process, and at that point he realizes the significance of my attendance at Catholic grammar school and high school. Like he knew that this was a question he should have asked earlier in the process, he said, “I see you went to Catholic school. Do you have a confirmation name?”

“Yes,” I said, “James.”

That's when I found out that your Confirmation name does not automatically become part of your legal name. The recruiter was slightly deflated, he mumbled some bad words, and he said, “so, we either have to start all over again, or (reaching for a form) you can fill out this form.”

It was labeled, “Joining the Military Service Under an Assumed Name.” We were both somewhat embarrassed, each for his own reasons. I had a lot of handwriting to do on this form. I disclosed my true name, and gave a reason for using a different name. I had to swear that using a fake name was not an act intending to defraud any person or entity, and that it was not, in any case, malicious.

Luckily, at that point in my life, it would have been impossible to hate my mother more than I already did.

I am, therefore, really hoping that I get the chance to die in Thailand. I have discussed the matter with my wife, and I wish to have a typical, but not fancy, Thai funeral, culminating with my cremation at the temple where the bone chips of her family members reside. My wife wishes to locate any remains in her family's ossuary. Those are smallish compartments built into walls around the temple. They burn the hell out of the body, and then rake the ashes for bone chips. There are always a few, usually parts of the long bones, like the femur or the humerus, or a piece of the forehead, or a tooth. Then they will engrave my name on the face-plate:

Frederick Ceely