What's In A Name?

By Zaria George ‘22

A Lady Writing by Johannes Vermeer (c. 1665). Image courtesy of the National Gallery of Art.

As a kid, whenever I asked my parents why they named me what they did, they would say they saw it in a book of baby names and thought it was beautiful. I think it was meant to be my middle name—with Simone as my first name—but Zaria Simone flowed better.

I’ve always had a difficult relationship with Zaria. The name is pretty to me, and I've never thought of it as an unfortunate one. For the first 18 years of my life, though, it just felt completely pointless. My parents called me Simone as my first name, so I made all of my classmates do it, too. I had never known Zaria.

My feelings towards its irrelevance had always been heightened by the fact that my brother was named after my dad. His name is also biblical in origin, so there’s  an added significance for my Catholic mom and vaguely Christian father. Zaria had no cultural relevance. There are multiple origins of the name. It’s Arabic, Hebrew, and Slavic. 

I’m not too familiar with the etymology of it and which version came first and what was derived from where, but in Arabic, Zaria translates to “flower.” In Hebrew, it’s a variation of the name “Sara” (that name is from the Bible). And in Slavic languages, the goddess of the dawn is called Zaria. It’s also a city in Nigeria, although unfortunately it was named so by the British in the early 20th century upon their claiming of the city. 

There is no set spelling of Zaria in any of these languages. Zaria. Zaryah. Zorya. Zara (I don’t claim this version, though, because it’s not pronounced the same). Actually, I’m not even sure if there is a set pronunciation. I still remember the anxiety every new school year, though, and how I just knew I’d have to 1.) correct the teacher’s pronunciation and 2.) ask them to call me Simone. Zah-REE-ah. Zahr-EYE-uh. Those are the two most common variations I’ve heard. I was always pleasantly surprised (and still am) when someone would get it right on the first try. 

When I was younger, I remember someone once telling me that I looked like a Jasmine, which I took as a code for “relatively brown.” 

I never expected to see “Zaria” on souvenirs as a kid. Sometimes I was fortunate enough to see “Simone”—and that was fine by me because that’s who I thought I was. People would tell me that Zaria is a beautiful name and ask me why I never went by it. I always shrugged and just said that I grew up as Simone. 

I decided to go by Zaria the summer before coming to Wellesley College. Although the school made it easy to write down your preferred name on documents, I stuck with Zaria. If I didn’t start going by it at a new school, in a new state, in a new chapter of my life, I knew I never would. My legal name being Zaria would only be some cute little fact about me brought up in icebreakers. I didn’t want that to happen, most importantly because, even though my parents themselves still call me Simone, it seemed disappointing to me to let their chosen name slip by. My parents chose it for a reason, and, though the reason may seem bland to me, it’s who I am.

Although I’ve become more comfortable with being called Zaria, there is still the internal dilemma that I have about its origins. In a community where I’m surrounded by friends and family with culturally significant names that reflect their heritage, I grapple with being “Zaria.” 

It’s ironic how when you’re younger you want a generic name to fit in, but as you get older you wish your name would truly reflect your culture. Zaria is a beautiful name, but I belong to none of its cultures. It’s different from being called something as common as Simone, which has by now become a globalized, multicultural name.

My mom’s side of the family is Mexican, with names and nicknames proudly reclaimed from the Spanish and reflective of the country’s culture. My dad and his family are Black and from the South, also with proudly reclaimed (Anglo) names that remind me of home. I’m not really sure how to resolve this dilemma. I know that Zaria as a name specifically continues to grow in the Black community, and in that context I am proud of it.

I still go by Simone when I’m at home; my history with the name and with certain people who have spoken it are pieces of me that I don’t ever want to forget. I do, however, constantly get whiplash coming and going from Wellesley and being called this or that. 

I believe that Zaria has slowly started to rise in popularity. I’ve come across more Zarias in my life. Will it ever be popular enough to be on a souvenir? Unfortunately for seven-year-old me, I don’t think it will. But twenty-one-year-old me is actively hoping that it never will. Recently, I saw an outfit set online labeled Zaria, and I’ve never been so thrown off. I’m not sure how to feel about it. I’ve become a little possessive of the name. 

Anyways, I leave you with the irony of my first name being so unique—Zaria—but my last name just being George. Regardless, and as far as I know, I am the only Zaria George.

Zaria George ‘22 (zgeorge) would like to wish you all a happy Latinx Month! From the March/April 2022 issue.