What’s In a Name? And How this Author Reclaimed Hers

Anyone who’s taken 9th grade English has likely heard this famous line by Shakespeare: What’s in a name? / That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet.

And just like that, I’m back in the classroom, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic- chair, my hand raised and a scowl on my face as I gear up to argue against the bard. (And also secure myself a teacher’s note that says: passionate but talks too much.)

Why? Because he’s wrong.

The idea that a name is just that and nothing more is such a Western notion. To me, a name is the intersection of past, present, and future. An homage to those who’ve come before, a reflection of who we are now, and an ardent light forward. So, to answer the foolish pining of sweet Juliet: a name is everything.

In Hawaiian culture, ʻO wai kou inoa? What is your name?, is the leading question for every hoʻolauna (introduction). It’s the first full phrase a person will learn when studying ʻŌlelo Hawaiʻi (Hawaiian language), and it’s the cornerstone of identity as traced through moʻokūʻauhau (genealogy). There’s a reason for that.

Hawaiians believe that inoa, or names, are living forces with the power to shape a person’s character and future, so great care is taken in the process of naming. Mary Kawena Pukui explained the significance of names in her book Nānā i Ke Kumu: “In the early days of Hawaiʻi, personal possessions were few, but highly valued...But even more precious was each man’s most personal possession, his name.”

And honestly, the West understands, to an extent, the power of names; they have long been a historical marker of ownership for centuries. Surnames were originally used to signify a person’s claim over another. And this custom, though no longer enforceable, is still in practice today, both socially and legally.

I, too, am victim to it. For though I diddn’t necessarily want to change my name when marrying, I was advised to do so. At the time, my partner was going through the immigration process. We were told that changing my name would help to “prove” to the US government that our marriage was real, rather than a ploy for my partner to gain citizenship. I loved him and there was a logic to it, so I complied.

I didn’t realize at the time, the greater effect it would have on me. In changing my name, I felt as if I’d lost a part of myself.

From that point forward, I’d get shocked expressions when I showed up somewhere, if I’d only sent my married name in advance. People said to me: You don’t look like what I’d pictured. I understood what they meant, even if it was never said aloud. You don’t look white.

In removing Kauwe from my name, I’d unintentionally changed who I was, or at least who I presented as. Sure, I still had my Hawaiian middle name, but at 27 letters long, the only people who even knew it were my dad, mom, and husband. This whitewashing of who I was, as an adult, unteethered me.

I can anticipate how some will react to this feeling of being lost. Does it matter than much? You’ve only traded one man’s name, for another.

And yes, it did matter. It mattered to me.

It’s interesting that sons never undergo this same interrogration. Do men not own their surnames because it was handed down to them from their fathers? Or are only daughters are given that grief? Kauwe is as much my own, as it is my brothers.’ To say any differently is pure sexism.

So, when The Killing Spell sold, one of the first things I asked, was to publish under my maiden name. In doing so, I was given the opportunity to reclaim who I was in what was in arguably one of the most important moments of my life.

For those who are used to seeing names like theirs in books, maybe this doesn’t feel like a big deal – but I’d never seen a Hawaiian name in an adult fantasy novel until my own. Makani, Keanu, Kealaokaleo, Kūlia, Haʻaheo. These are just some of the characters who grace the pages of The Killing Spell. And then of course, there is my own name across the cover. Shay Kauwe. Unapologetically and unequivocally Hawaiian.

I’m me once again, and I have this book to thank for that.  

So I pose the question back to you: Would your opinion of The Killing Spell, even if just a first impression, change if I’d published under a Russian surname, rather than a Hawaiian one?

Or does this rose still smell as sweet?