What’s in a name?

When I introduce myself in French, I say that my name is Emilie, which it’s not. It’s Emily (which the French take to pronouncing Hem-lee).

I don’t know why I do it. Alex makes sure that everyone, including his English teacher, knows that his name is Alexandre, not Alexander.

I have never been terribly attached to my own name. It’s very common, the second most popular girls’ name for the year I was born. It’s not my parents’ fault that everyone decided that 1987 was the year to pull what had, until then, been considered an old-fashioned name out of the woodworks.

I much prefer the other versions of my name. Not Emilie, not really. I like Amélie, which is what Alex thought my name was for the first whole year I knew him. I like Emilia, the Spanish version of my name. But I don’t introduce myself as Emiglia in Italy or as Emilia in Spain. I always try to make the locals pronounce my name “Emily,” which never ends up sounding right anyway.

I have a theory that most bilingual people agree with me on: people who speak two languages often feel as though they have two versions of themselves. When they speak one language, they feel like one person, and when they speak the other, they feel as if they take on a different personality. The differences may not be extreme, but they’re there.

Maybe my two names is a version of this, a version that developed long before I became bilingual. Who knows?

I introduce myself as Emilie in French, and I don’t know why.

Children who are raised bilingual have a much easier time with the logic that changing the name of something doesn’t change what it is. The fact that you could, in theory, call a cat a dog and a dog a cat does not pose much of a problem in their logic. Children raised with only one language have a very hard time grasping this fact.

Maybe it’s because I wasn’t raised bilingual, but even though I can grasp the logic of this, I’m not sure I agree, at least when it comes to cross-linguistic borders. The names Emily and Emilie have different connotations in the two languages. Florence and Hortense in French are perfectly normal names to give a child, while their English equivalents are what Emily was in 1987: antiquated.

The zucchini has a similar identity crisis. Sometimes courgette and sometimes zucchini, it masquerades with two names, two names that apparently mean the same thing. But to me, they don’t sound the same. A courgette seems proper, something you could serve at a ladies’ luncheon or as an hors d’oeuvre at a cocktail party. A zucchini seems much more unassuming, like something you could toss in a soup or on the grill.

I don’t know if these are stuffed zucchini or stuffed courgettes. Regardless of the name, they were delicious.

As for me, I’ll content myself with being Emiglia for now: I have been for nearly four years now, and it’s suiting me quite well.

Stuffed Summer Squash of Some Sort (adapted from Almost Turkish)

1 zucchini/courgette
1 oz. feta cheese
1 egg
1 tsp. dried mint
1/4 tsp. black pepper
olive oil

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Wash and dry the zucchini and slice it in half, lengthwise. Rub a small amount of olive oil on the cut sides and roast, face down, for 10-15 minutes, until brown.

Meanwhile, combine the feta, egg, mint and pepper in a small bowl with a fork until smooth. (A few chunks of feta is OK.)

Scoop the seeds from the zucchini and dispose of them. Fill each side of the zucchini with the mixture. Return to the oven and bake until the egg is set and the cheese is browned.