What’s in a Name?

Growing up, I loathed my name. I remember pleading with my parents to let me switch to my middle name, desperate to escape the feeling of standing out, of being so foreign, so other. 

For the record, Kitty is my pen name. My real name is in the Irish language—one of the more phonetically simple ones—but even then, it tripped up my American peers and teachers. In the ‘90s, my family was one of the few immigrant families in our small town. We had moved from the big city to a place that wasn’t yet diverse. Back then, we were the different ones, and my name became a constant reminder of just how much I didn’t belong.

But a name is so much more than just what we’re called. I didn’t realize that back then. It wasn’t until college, after reading Brian Friel’s Translations, that I began to understand the weight names carry—the way they are intertwined with our identity, our history, our very sense of self. Our given names hold power. Cue the Irish guilt for using a pen name, but in the end, I found a way to bring that part of me forward. Kitty may be a pen name, but it’s rooted in my heritage, a thread connecting me to the ancestry of my family. In choosing it, I’ve allowed some of my own familial ghosts to step out of the shadows and into the light.

And when I think of those ancestors—clinging to the names of their families, their homes, their villages—only to have those names butchered by English tongues or carelessly reshaped by weary clerks at Ellis Island, scribbling down sounds from accents they didn’t bother to understand, I see how easily everything could be anglicized, erased. It’s no wonder we’re haunted. Their ghosts whisper across generations, urging us to protect and honor our names.

Where Old Ghosts Meet had its name long before I ever put pen to paper. I just didn’t know it. And I suppose that’s a good thing, because titles have always been elusive for me. I never start a project knowing what it will be called—if I did, it would surely change a thousand times before the end. But this novel named itself.

I started putting together a playlist—songs that reminded me of the characters, of Josie and her hybrid nature, spanning both the States and Ireland. As I played the music, Luke Kelly’s unmistakable voice filled the air, singing Raglan Road. I’d heard it a million times before, knew every word of Patrick Kavanagh’s poem set to music. But this time, the words leapt out at me. The line—struck somewhere deep and landed right in the center of my chest—grabbed hold and refused to let go. It was as if the song had been quietly waiting for me to hear it at just the right moment.

“On a quiet street where old ghosts meet

I see her walking now,

And away from me so hurriedly

My reason must allow.”

I couldn’t help but think of Josie—beautiful, vulnerable, and shattered—running from her demons and the ghosts of her past. Yet, as broken as she is, she comes to understand that not all ghosts are meant to terrify us. Some memories, though haunting, don’t exist to harm. Sometimes, like Sarg’s letters, they are quiet whispers, woven with regret but not with fear—whispers of hope, gently urging us forward, into that light.

And so, what’s in a name? Everything. It holds history, resilience, identity—and yes, ghosts. Ancestors reaching through time, waiting to welcome us, if only we remember where we came from. That place has a name, too.  

Home…

-Kitty