Stepping Off the Tracks
The waiting room ceiling in my childhood doctor’s office was lined with railroad tracks. A small, red train traveled endlessly around the loop. There was never a question of where it was going next. How did I find myself envious of a plastic train? Every year, I feared going to the doctor, but not for the normal reasons, like needing a shot or fearing being sick. Rather, I was terrified of the red dot on my height comparison chart. Every year, I watched that dot ascend higher and higher. Ironically, as my body continued to grow, I felt more and more trapped. Why couldn’t I stop this? Why did the train mock me with its endless comfort of consistency?
Around the time I entered middle school, my father began calling me “Catie Cooper.” And I hated it. Every time he uttered my masculine middle name, my ears grew red. Somehow, that one word encapsulated every fear I felt when I walked into the doctor’s office: a fear of losing my femininity. My father dismissed my clear and spoken disdain for the name, rehashing that Cooper is a family name.
Only making matters worse, Cooper means “barrel-maker.” I never understood how I was supposed to feel attached to a word that had no relation to me. Seriously? Barrel-maker? It felt like an insult, as if I were being mocked by the train all over again. I could not help but resent the girls with dainty middle names, like Rose or Lily, that seemed to embody a delicacy or femininity that I craved so heavily. This feeling of being trapped in my body festered as my name became more estranged from who I truly wanted to be.
It wasn’t until recently that the glass behind this naïve mindset shattered. A family friend of mine decided to hyphenate her last name rather than simply switch to her husband’s name and leave hers behind. Until this very moment, I had felt a disconnect from my name. Right then, I understood. I understood that a name doesn’t just represent the definitional phrase it did in medieval Europe, like Cooper as a barrel-maker, but it encompasses family tradition: a living account of love and life. By hyphenating her last name, my family friend chose to keep the beauty and memories of her past with her, while allowing for the flourishing of her future to occur within her new family.
The name Cooper harbors generations of success and pride, but, equally important, defeat. It represents a lineage that embarked from England across the Atlantic Ocean, driven by love in hopes of a new beginning. It recounts the story of one generation where a man single-handedly poured his life’s passion into opening and operating his own small business. Yet, Cooper also hosts the truth of another generation where a man, overwhelmed with pain, took his own life. This myriad of experiences of trials and triumphs remains linked by the name Cooper. This very name unites me with the stories of my past; however, equally important, it links me to my family’s future. I have the privilege of writing the next chapter–the privilege of further defining the narrative of our heritage, whether that brings success, pride, or defeat.
I no longer associate the word Cooper with this unrelenting burden of feeling unfeminine. The same name that my ancestors carried with pride as they embraced their femininity, working difficult careers and raising children, I now carry with that same pride. I see now that the definition of a word does not have to be taken so literally. Through generations, my family has built what Cooper means. It doesn’t mean “barrel-maker.” It means love, dedication, and challenge. In the very way we redefined the meaning of Cooper, I have redefined the meaning of femininity. I no longer yearn to conform to a vision of femininity embodied by an unobtainable sense of delicate petiteness. To me, femininity is about passion and strength and representing the pillars of what I now define a Cooper to be. I’ve noticed my ears no longer grow red when my dad calls me by my nickname. I no longer feel the labored, manual breathing in my chest as the train circles endlessly. I wonder if the train envies me. For I have the privilege of growth. The privilege to develop and redefine the story behind and in front of me.
Catie Schwartz is an undergraduate biology major at Emory University in Atlanta, Georgia, with aspirations of attending medical school. Writing has become a meaningful creative outlet for her, providing space to reflect and express herself. She also enjoys swimming and playing water polo, embracing challenges both in the pool and on the page as opportunities to grow and deepen her understanding of herself and the world.
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