In Alabama, she was simply Lynn. A sharecropper’s granddaughter, riding her grandaddy’s plow, calling hogs, learning the ways of Jim Crow. Lynn was small and simple. But at eleven, she left that girl behind.

When she arrived in Cleveland in 1963, she needed a clean break from her prior life. Lynn was too much of a reminder of her childhood trauma. So she became Linda, with all of its sophistication and Northern-ness. As Linda, she auditioned for the Upbeat show and modeled for product advertisements. She won a grand trophy at Cleveland's first Black beauty pageant, standing on stage in a sequined gown, proving she was somebody worth looking at.

For all her glamour, Linda still carried the wound of the girl who had been left behind by her mother. No amount of applause filled that void. So when she married Michael Heath in San Francisco in 1975, she tried on another name, another self. Arlinda Heath was a married woman, respectable, settled, complete. Surely this version would finally be enough.

She loved Michael, but the marriage could not bear the weight of her need to be someone new. When her encouragement for him to find a job curdled into nagging, the rift between them grew until the name Arlinda Heath felt like another failed costume. After four years, she shed it along with the marriage.

By the time I met her at Thelen Marrin Johnson & Bridges, she had returned to her full birth name. The placard perched atop her cubicle counter displayed Arlinda Willis in clean Helvetica font. Her name engraved on a plastic rectangle carried a sense of professionalism.

But she was not quite done being named.

When we started dating, I gave her the nickname, Lovely. Before calling her this pet name the first time, I had practiced it dozens of times to myself over several days to make sure it sounded natural. American women sometimes take offense when visiting England and strangers call them “Luv.” To an Englishman, it is synonymous with Miss or Ma’am. I would not presume to call her “Luv” in America. But “Lovely” seemed more personal.

She tilted her head, lifted an elegant hand to mine, and returned, “Lead the way, Robbie.”

In that moment, she gave me a new name too. Not Rob, the professional. Not Robert, the formal. Robbie, a playful moniker from someone who saw past my own armor.

This time, she allowed someone to name her. In accepting that name, she finally stopped running from Lynn, Linda, Arlinda Heath, and Arlinda Willis. She was worthy of love. Lovely was enough.