The Wake

Hi, My Name is _____________.

If we have to have numbers, I claim 62.

Recently, in my political science course, I got schooled in U of M privacy policy. In the classroom we regularly sign an attendance sheet. The sheet, which is passed from one student to another around the classroom, contains the first and last names of everyone in the class and apparently, is an infringement of our rights. By letting the other students know our names we are putting ourselves on the line to be victims of stalking, online predation or any other of a list of possible crimes. Following this rule, it is not okay for a professor to call any student by their full name, or, for example, Janet one day and Ms. Jackson (if the professor is nasty) the other.

We had to sign a consent form. It was silly.

What does it matter if someone in my class knows my whole name?

What’s in a name?

Right around the time I was conceived, my mother was studying biology in France with a male work partner, while my father was tending the homestead in Vermont. My mom came home and, shortly thereafter, revealed that she was knocked up. Skeptical, my father perpetually teased that he couldn’t be the father. My mother scoffed at his accusation and then insisted that I have a French first name. Interesting, eh?

Apparently, my mother simply loved the French culture. Further, she apparently loved my father. Donc, je ne suis pas français, mais je m’appelle Nicole.

My grandmother, Eleonora Wurdak, was perhaps the most genuinely kind person I have ever known. My father was born and raised in Austria and only moved to the United States when he married my mother. We were rarely able to fly and visit her, thus my grandma is a bit of a mystery to me.

She wore a wig. This is what I remember of my grandma. She wore a wig and didn’t speak English very well. Her face was decorated with deep wrinkles, serving as evidence of a lifetime of laughter.

I remember that she gave me cookies when I would visit, even though I was a fat kid. I appreciated that.

And once, I remember walking down a paved path through the woods immediately after it rained with my father and grandmother. The walkway was covered with a near-solid layer of snails, who, presumably, were also out for a stroll. It was impossible to take a step without treading on one and hearing a crack-squish, revealing the demise of yet another snail.

I can list off nearly every Wurdak in the world. Most of them are in Austria and most are my relatives. Across the ocean, I have a cousin who is a pilot for Austrian airlines, one who is a fashion designer, an uncle who looks like Mozart, an aunt who can make a peach cobbler that is tastier than a lovers kiss, and, peering far back into my family tree, I am related to a saint. Personally, I have no avian skills, perpetually wear my pajamas in public, resemble no one of fame, can’t cook, and ain’t no saint, but, as a Wurdak, I can claim a part of their glory. I sound my name proudly, as proof that, though I may not be very cool, I am related to people who are.

I am Nicole Eleonora Wurdak and I am proud of each letter, each syllable of my name. To force me into nominal anonymity is to take away so much that I pride myself in.

So, yes, you might be saving me from potential stalking by protecting this privacy, but some secrets I just don’t want to have to keep.

One can’t help but worry about this progression of privacy. Without our names, we lose a bit of who we are. At a university already plagued with claims of impersonality, these steps seem frightful in a futuristic sort of way. It doesn’t seem entirely implausible that eventually our names will be replaced with numbers, or bar codes or tiny chips implanted in our arms.

Should the situation arise, I still claim the number 62.

Nix is a Voices staff writer and welcomes your comments at .