The Piggy Project

I’ve had so many names in this life I lose track of which ones were ever really mine and which ones I wore because someone needed me to. Some were handed to me before I had words to refuse them, before I knew what they meant, before I knew I could say no. Most weren’t meant to hurt. That doesn’t mean they didn’t leave marks. Marks that told me who I belong to, who I am by way of who claims me, recognizes me in the good and bad, who walks beside me.

Daughter.

Granddaughter.

Niece.

The nicknames I gave myself as a child because I couldn't pronounce my own name.

The names loaned to me because someone needed me to be something. That carry impact, even though we don't fully understand the impact until we've paid the price.

Friend.

The oldest one.

The strong girl.

The smart girl.

The quiet girl.

The girl on the swing who forgot she was being watched. Dreaming of adventure and freedom.

And of you.

Best friend.

Damaged friend.

Broken friend.

The weird girl.

What’s in a name, really? A few syllables. A pattern of sounds. Vibrations of the vocal cords uttering into existence a noise that attaches itself to us. Existence first, then essence. The meaning we attach to it comes next. Sometimes not by choice. Sometimes not until its already taken root.

Salutatorian.

College student.

College graduate.

And the name that meant the most.

Mother.

And the ones that carried permanence that grief shows us really is impermanence because everything is finite and therefore precious.

Wife.

Ex-wife.

Coworker.

Ex-coworker.

Girlfriend.

Ex-girlfriend.

And then there were the names you knew me by.

Kristina.

Babe.

Baby.

Babydoll.

Piggy.

I'm trying to find the capacity to hold the full spectrum of who I am without shame.

Piggy?

***

12:06pm

"...I love you and I care about you so much."

12:10pm

"I'll try it. What if I mention your weight, is that over the line?"

12:14pm

"What if I called you a Piggy?"

***

Since that day, I’ve been trying to make sense of it. This word. This name I didn’t see coming, pressed against me like a thumbprint I never asked for. One I can’t wipe off.

I’ve named myself three times in this life. Three names, each tied to my work, my words, my voice. Bridges spanning the distance between who I am and what I create. Between the self I carry and the self I offer.

Every name outside those three was given to me. I carried them because I didn’t want to set them down.

But this one cuts deeper.

If I’m going to carry it, it has to mean something. Otherwise it’s just weight. (See what I did there?)

Throughout history and culture, pigs are complicated. They are seen as both sacred and profane. An abundant, earth-rooted, sacred provider. And a disgusting, base, gluttonous creature.

In Middle English, the word appeared as pigge, a diminutive for a young swine. Before pigge, the Old English word was swīn. Which we still recognize today as swine.

Swine has roots older than English. Older than the language you used to give me the name. It stretches through Proto-Germanic. Proto-Indo-European. A word so old it comes from the time of survival, of farming, of filth and need.

The word became an insult later, when we began to see it in people. Hunger in excess. Ugliness turned inward. Loud. Ravenous. Boasting. Cruel.

Cruelty. Now there’s a word.

A swine can be cruel. A monster can also be cruel.

Monster comes from the Latin word monstrum, which is rooted in the verb monere, meaning "to warn" or "to advise."

An omen.

A sign.

A lighthouse.

A messenger of the truth, pointing to something being wrong beneath the surface.

A messenger of the truth. And the truth is, being a monster is really not that bad. The meaning shifted from omen, to abnormality, to terrifying creature. But that is because the truth can be terrifying.

And the truth?

No, you can't mention my weight. It is over the line.

No, you can't punish me for a boundary.

No, you can't reframe this as my bad reaction.

No, you can't call me Piggy.

But rather, Monster, if you will.