The other night I went to an information event for a program I’d registered interest in.
It was held in a conference room at a sleek building in Midtown Manhattan; the type of place where the gunmetal elevator zooms you straight up to the 40th floor in the blink of an eye and a squeeze of the eardrums.
On arrival, there were nuts and falafels and sodas and wine, and a welcoming committee who instructed me to wear my name tag. After all, that’s a part of what we do here.
By now, I know what happens. I don’t do name tags. I don’t try them, write them out fresh, or tuck them out of sight. They’re just not for me.
Is it my iconoclastic attitude? A disinterest in ceremony, a contempt for convention.
I don’t trust easily. I’m guarded, introverted. I hide away at the back of the class. You can’t find out my name from the tag.
But here’s the thing. Ask me and I’ll tell.
I just don’t want to give it away unless I have the space to tell the whole story.
And of course, this isn’t just about names.