I Love My Nonbinary Child. I Still Deadnamed Them.
What’s in a (dead) name? Would gender identity by another name sound as sweet?
My kids and I are in Germany on our first-ever overseas adventure. The trip has been incredible so far, starting with Taylor Swift in Munich, then Prague, and now, Berlin. But it certainly isn’t idyllic; part of traveling is having moments with your companions. This is exponentially so when traveling with two teenagers.
We’re having one of those moments right now.
“Way to deadname,” my eldest child chides me.
I nearly snap back at her but catch myself. It’s hot, we’re tired, and she’s not feeling well. Plus, I’m the parent; it’s my job to try to act like it.
And also: I did just deadname my youngest. Again.
This is not normal, or intentional. But nearly 3.5 years after my child changed her name — and a nearly perfect record of using and respecting her chosen name — I’m now nearly powerless to prevent it.
Why? Well, it all stems back to my dear friend and her daughter, located on the other side of the world.
Saundrah and I are an unlikely mix of strangely similar and polar opposites.
We’re nearly birthday twins, born just four days apart. But our birthdays fall on opposite sides of the cusp. She’s the Cancer to my Leo, the moon to my sun, the introvert to my extrovert. And yet for all the ways in which we differ, we’re weirdly the same. Our tastes in music, art, food, culture, politics, and men are uncannily alike.
A striking example: Saundrah flew to visit me while pregnant. She and her then-husband were keeping the baby’s name a secret, but she asked if I wanted to try to guess it.
“It’s not Annika, is it…?” I asked.
She looked genuinely shocked. “How did you know?”
“Because Annika was in the running for our eldest’s name,” I replied, laughing. “And if we ever have a second girl, that’s our top choice.”
Of course we’d picked the same name.
Of course when I got pregnant again, it was a girl.
We tried to find a name we liked as well as Annika, but to no avail. So I asked Saundrah if it would be okay for our daughters to share the name. She said yes. Since they were in Europe and we were in the Pacific Northwest, we figured their time together would be limited. We thought the shared name would be a nice bond between our two kids. And it would be another eerie similarity between us.
Our Annika arrived eight days short of her Annika’s first birthday.
Like their moms, our two Annikas have loads in common and are also so different. Both girls are empathetic, bright, creative souls. They love the same video games, and are both singularly obsessed with a certain music: K-Pop for Saundrah’s, and Taylor for mine.
But Saundrah’s daughter is tall, has an incredible sense of direction, and awakens at 5:30am every day to get homework done. My daughter is tiny, can’t find her way around her own neighborhood, and is a total night owl. Saundrah’s daughter is an extrovert, and mine, an introvert; somehow, we each ended up with our opposites.
But one thing our daughters have in common? Both kids opted to change their names.
When Saundrah’s child was school-aged, she went by Nika. When we’d talk, it was easy to differentiate our two kids, no problem.
But then as they entered their tween years, Nika decided to return to using Annika. And my child chose to go by Nico, as part of a broader gender journey, when she announced she was genderfluid and then, nonbinary.
So Annika became Nika and then back to Annika.
And my Annika became Nico.
It’s not that complicated. But somehow, even all these years later, having the two of them together breaks my mama brain.
It’s our first full day in Berlin, and Saundrah and Annika have walked ahead to get bubble teas while my kids explore a shop. I know mine love bubble tea as well, so I poke in to ask if they want to join them.
“Annika and Saundrah went for bubble tea,” I tell them. “Do you want one too, Annika… gah-I-mean-Nico?” I ask, fumbling my question.
Nico looks up from the bracelets she’s examining. “Nah, I’m okay,” she answers before turning back to the jewelry. She’s been avoiding bubble tea — and many other treats — during our travels because she’s concerned about stomach aches; she’s prone to them.
Right now, I’m more concerned about her feelings than I am about tapioca balls in tea. “I’m sorry I messed up your name,” I apologize, a bit sheepishly.
“I’m okay,” she answers, barely looking up this time. It can be hard to read a 14-year-old’s emotions. Was her terse response because she’s annoyed with me, or because she legit doesn’t care? I decide to take her “okay” at face value.
Hearing “Annika” doesn’t seem to have fazed her.
I’m relieved, as this hasn’t always been the case.
It’s a strange thing when your child selects a new name. As a parent, you spend hours researching, contemplating, searching for just the right one. Often, as in our case, you pick a name with significance, something that connects your new baby to their family of origin. Then after they’re born and you use that name over and over, you imprint on it. That name is the phonemic representation of this human you’ve created. I will never hear the name “Annika” and not hear the love imbued in each sound.
One of the magical things about the name Annika was knowing one of my dear friends — a friend I can’t see often after she expatriated so far away — was saying that same name, with that same love, every day.
But you know what else?
Parenting is about letting go. It’s about realizing that you’ve created a new human who exists independently from the unconditional love you give them. So when Annika chose not to use their given name, I respected her choice. And after not long at all, Nico just sounded right. The name suits the adolescent she was when she chose it, and the teen she is now as she continues to use it.
I look at my child and I see Nico. I almost never mess up her name.
Almost.
Saundrah has graciously opened her Berlin apartment to us, and we’re kind of overflowing the place. The three girls are all crammed into Annika’s bedroom, but they don’t seem to mind. I hear them cackling as they play Roblox on their phones together.
It’s nearly time to head out for the day and I’m rushing about, packing bags and locating shoes and water bottles. I poke my head into the kids’ room to check in.
I see Annika perched on her bed, and my two piled on the blow-up bed beside hers. “Roxy, Annika, you ready?” I call out to them — and just as I’m about to correct my slip-up, my eldest calls me out: “Mom! You’re deadnaming!”
Part of me appreciates this. She’s always been Nico’s biggest champion through her name change and gender journey, and I think that’s awesome.
The other part of me is embarrassed and tries, once again, to explain.
“I was looking at Annika while saying your name and I just…” My voice falters. “I just messed up.”
Again, I think to myself.
This is easily the sixth or seventh time I’ve made this blunder. I can’t fully explain it, but when I see Annika and Nico together, my tongue fumbles over the syllables for each name, the As and Ns and Ks tripping out of my mouth, and often landing on “Annika” for my child.
Something about using that name in close proximity to my daughter rewires my neurons, undoes the relearning I did to adapt to “Nico.”
These days, Nico isn’t exploring new identities and pronouns as they did back then. But the name Nico has stuck and clearly represents an identity choice. It comes with more gravitas than just a nickname. So it’s important to get it right — and I keep messing up.
But am I deadnaming?
I consult Merriam Webster for guidance and see “deadname” refers to “the name that a transgender person was given at birth and no longer uses upon transitioning” as a noun and “to speak of or address (someone) by their deadname” as a verb.
These definitions aren’t helpful, as my curiosity is around intent. To me, to deadname someone — as a verb — implies bad intent. It refers to someone who knows a trans person has transitioned to a new name and gender and then willfully refuses to address them as they wish to be called. The word sounds harsh, because the action is cruel and disrespectful.
When I stumble over my syllables, am I deadnaming?
I consult another source, and Wikipedia seems to think so. “Deadnaming may be unintentional, or a deliberate attempt to deny, mock, or invalidate a person’s gender identity.”
Mine is certainly the former, and most definitely not the latter.
And most importantly, it’s not really the dictionary definition that matters: it’s my child’s.
It wasn’t all that long ago that hearing Annika — or a “she” pronoun — would’ve upset Nico.
She came out with her new name and pronouns (they/them*) just before her eleventh birthday. I wasn’t surprised when it happened, as many other kids in our friend group did the same. What did surprise me was how assertive my child was in sharing their new identity. Nico tends to be shy and empathetic. For her to proclaim how she wished to be addressed into the world as she did was a wonder. And as she journeyed through her gender changes, I saw my child grow bolder and more confident, as she championed not only for herself, but also for other LBGTQ+ folks. It made my mama heart swell with pride.
It also made me extra cautious to keep up, and to get their name and pronouns right.
If I didn’t, Nico’s reaction was firm. One time, I related a story about a friend who’d also changed their name and pronouns. During the retelling I said, “And then-Elena went to her family and said…” and Nico jumped in.
“You just deadnamed them!!” she declared, indignant.
“I wasn’t deadnaming. I was just referring to a time before they changed names, so I used “Elena” with the “then” in front of it, for clarity,” I answered.
“That’s deadnaming, mom!” they replied.
And so, it was. And so, I learned, thanks to my child.
But now, over three years later, that same child has heard me deadname her during our travels. She’s also had to respond to “Annika” as she’s gone through customs in airports and answered conductors on trains. And she seems unphased by it.
What I see in her non-reaction is an acceptance. Nico is her chosen name. Annika remains her legal name. There was a time on her gender journey when being confronted with this would have pained her. Now, it’s just pragmatic, matter-of-fact. I’d like to think this shift happened at least in part because she’s been 100% supported by family and friends in her gender journey. So now, if she occasionally needs to recognize “Annika” on legal documents — or when her mom’s mind gets boggled — it’s not a big deal.
The intent is right. She still feels seen.
If she wants to legally change her name or pronouns once she’s a bit older, that change will be available to her.
Her mother’s mind? I can’t vouch for that. But I will always try my best.
What’s in a name? I know the importance of calling people by their proper names and pronouns. It’s part of helping them feel seen and respected.
And these kids, who we’ve raised and loved, remain the same empathetic, bright, creative souls they’ve always been, by whatever names they choose. That which we call an Annika, or Nika, or Nico, by any other name would sound just as sweet. Still, it’s best to use the proper ones.
Happily, now that we’re back home, Nico is just Nico, with no more stammering or deadnaming from me.
I think we’re both grateful for it.
*Nico has since shifted to she/her/they pronouns. In speech, we tend to flip back and forth. For writing clarity, I’ve stuck with “she” throughout.
Greetings!
I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of two Medium publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns and Three Imaginary Girls. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.
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