Etymology

Since time began, humans have felt the need to create order from the chaos, to divide the messy into neat (or at least comprehensible) groups, chiefly by labeling them. In ancient times, people would give their child a special name in hopes of projecting future success. “’Tis but thy name that is mine enemy,” Shakespeare’s Juliet explains, while the heroine of any given Harlequin romance novel begs her lover to “say my name.” Names have always had a profound effect on the way humans think, behave, and feel – never was this more clear to me than when my name, my label, changed forever.1

I was born in the nondescript state of West Virginia as Meagan Marie Emmerson, the namesake of an unknown actress in a low-budget film my mother has long since forgotten. My early life was spent moving, following my father’s career as a sales representative for a major brick company until we settled in Louisville, just before I entered first grade. I was a very plain and quiet child, content to have a small group of equally unremarkable friends that I clung to. The name Meagan means “pearl”, and for many years it fit me quite handsomely; there was a chance that I could have been arranged more tastefully for maximum impact, but small and frumpy clusters of pearls are far easier to create. Most people pass them over in favor of shinier stones, but the discerning eye is able to recognize the value of such a gem. My teachers noted that I was intelligent, and made an effort to push me academically in whatever ways they could. My mother appreciated the effort, as did I. I was content in my mollusk-induced existence…for a while.2

It was towards the end of fifth grade when I discovered that I was not content with the strand I had hung on for so long – it was time for something new. I cut over a foot from my hair, bought more fashionable clothes, and diplomatically befriended more popular people. When all was said and done, though, I found that all I had managed was to be precariously positioned on the edge of a strand of diamonds. I was still the same person, with the same quiet spirit and lack of confidence, and so I left elementary school with a renewed determination to break free of my polished shell - it was time for a change.3

And change, I did. That summer, my father’s drinking (which had begun with the loss of his job a few months previously) increased, and with it his repeated and negative assessments of my character. This strengthened my resolve to not only appear to be different, but to undergo a fundamental change in my identity in order to be liked and accepted. Therefore, the summer months were spent smearing on glue and rolling in glitter. I would be a different gem, a sparkly one – loud, confident, funny, and outgoing. This gem wasn’t going to beg for attention or chase after friendships; it wouldn’t even care about what people thought! I decided to name it Lusie.4

The school year dawned, and Lusie exploded onto the scene. It was almost comical, really, the stark contrasts – I still went by Meagan insofar as the teachers were concerned, still completed the schoolwork with the utmost ease and comprehension. But socially, and in the eyes of the other students, I was an interpersonal wonder. My shiny surface dazzled them – I would ask the questions they were afraid to ask, and was unabashedly what I considered to be assertive. More often than not I was merely rude or aggressive, but my deception worked wonderfully, and it took little time to gain the friends and followers I so desperately desired. Scores of people enjoyed this sparkly Lusie, and I basked in their appreciation, however conditional it was. It mattered not that it took vast amounts of energy to keep up the shine.5

When my mother decided to begin dragging us to church in the middle of sixth grade, I left my ever-present bottle of glitter at home – my charade, my “other personality”, was solely for school, and it didn’t even occur to me to bring it along anywhere else. Thus, the glitter occasionally flaked off, leaving pieces of me exposed to the strangers I shared a gym with every Sunday morning and Wednesday night. I was not Meagan, the pearl – but neither was I the cubic zirconium I presented to those whose attentions I valued more. I was simply Lusie, the lump of something…and curiously enough, everyone was okay with that. As the school year drew to a close and the jewel was slid into its velvet case, I continued to go to church, to allow the glitter to tumble ungracefully to the feet of the people I had begun to consider friends. That summer we gave freely of ourselves, forming beautiful friendships based solely on who we truly were, although none of us had any idea what that meant. All I knew was that I did not have to be brave with those people, did not have to be aggressive, did not have to be sparkly. I may have only been a lump of something, but it was understood that the undefined matter was very valuable indeed. 6

The summer ended, and the glitter came back out for another year’s use, but I now found that the pellets itched and the glue dried my skin. I had easily taken my place among my cohorts at school, and rationalized that they would accept my lack of luster as easily as the children from church had – after all, hadn’t they known me longer? Hadn’t they each promised their unconditional acceptance at one time or another? I allowed myself to gradually slip out of character, my words and mannerisms becoming gentler, my opinions varying slightly from those of the people I claimed to so dearly love. Instead of embracing the new creation that I was sharing with them, though, the other children rejected it, much as a materialistic bride is enraged to find that her ring is actually from a bubble gum machine instead of the fashionable jewelry store advertised downtown. The teachers read my name from the roll sheets those first few days – it was Meagan, the pearl, the nothing. The students took their cues and adopted the name…I didn’t correct them.7

As my relationships at school were relatively nonexistent, and therefore provided no distraction from the scholastic drudgery, I found myself actually being forced to pay attention in class. The subjects I had half-listened to before and passed effortlessly suddenly seemed ridiculous. With my full attention on the subject matter, I quickly grew bored with it, stopped trying, and began to fail classes for the first time in my life. Dad’s drinking, and the ensuing verbal abuse, grew more frequent and more severe. But while I was being referred to as a piece of [refuse] at home and spiraling downward at school, I was blossoming at church. I was discovering a love for music and drama that I had never known I had, unearthing talents, and reveling in wonderful relationships with amazing people.8

It was at this strange and disconnected point in my life that something very interesting began to happen; I began to compartmentalize myself according to the circumstances surrounding the locations each name belonged to. In my mind, Meagan was a failure – she was worthless, unattractive, lazy, and generally deserved whatever came her way. But I was Lusie, and I was intelligent, valuable, and dearly loved. That was something nobody at home or school could change – they could beat on the gentle white shell of the pearl all they liked, leave dents and dirt and angry gashes, but they could not reach the something that lay within, and that thought was what kept me sane.9

It was in honor of that something that I dug in my heels and passed seventh grade with an improbable 3.5, continuing to force myself to excel in eighth. My church friends literally and figuratively held my hand as I reached out once more at school, managing to finally find my niche in the bosom of a group that the reflection from the glitter would have made me unable to even notice in years past. Curiously, they were among the only people from school that still called me Lusie.10

Leaving middle school brought with it the memories of the only other graduation I had ever known – the night after school ended, my group of friends from church met, and agreed that none of us had turned out to be the people we had expected ourselves to be. We had all made mistakes, we had all fallen, and we were all looking forward to moving on with our lives…and we solemnly promised to do so with the utmost sincerity. Later, it occurred to me that I had never taken the time to find out what the something behind my multiple exteriors was, the something that had cultivated in the glow of the love of those that surrounded me. I shut myself away, ignoring the sound of my father’s voice through the walls – it was partially his marks that colored my top layer in the forms of cracks and imperfections, multiple blows to the shell I was carefully stepping out of. Beneath it lie the vestiges of what some had once been tricked into believing was a beautiful diamond, and it was at this layer that I hesitated. What if, beneath it all, I truly was a pearl? Or, worse, a mere rock? But my flesh begged for air, and so I took a deep breath before tearing it all away.11

What I found…was light. That’s what Lusie means, “light”, and it’s who I am. In high school, it is the name I am referred to by all I know, and it is the most fitting name I can imagine. For I have honored the promise made years ago, and live a life devoid of any shell. I am bright and glorious, although not without my dimmer moments. I am both an individual entity and a product of everyone and everything I come into contact with. I am simultaneously fleeting and eternal, flexible and defined. Since time began, humans have felt the need to create order from the chaos, to divide the messy into neat (or at least comprehensible) groups, chiefly by labeling them. I am Lusie, and I finally know just what that means.12