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If Trump can rename the Gulf, why can't we rename ourselves?

If Trump can rename the Gulf, why can't we rename ourselves?

Adélina Lévêque Empress of Haiti circa 1859 Republic of Haity Citadelle Laferriere Henri Cristophe
public domain via wikipedia; Alex Po Travel/shutterstock

Empress Adélina, c. 1859, the third royal consort of Haiti; Haiti's Citadelle Laferrière, a symbol of the nation's resilience.

Discover the power of names and the journey of self-discovery through the eyes of your Lovable Trans Auntie.

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Your Lovable Trans Auntie is our go-to advice column for life’s biggest (and messiest) questions—love, work, identity, and everything in between. With a signature blend of warmth, wit, and just the right amount of sass, Auntie offers readers a uniquely trans perspective that’s as affirming as it is entertaining. Whether dishing out heartfelt wisdom, practical advice, or a little tough love, Auntie is here to remind everyone that they’re never alone on this journey.

Got a crush but don’t know how to tell them you’re trans? Wondering how to deal with that coworker who still “forgets” your pronouns? Trying to navigate family drama, dating dilemmas, or just figuring out who you are? Auntie’s got you. Submit your questions to voices@equalpride.com.


What's in a name? And, no, I'm not talking about the words immemorably written by William Shakespeare 428 years ago, either. Names are how we introduce ourselves and sign a check or an email. They can feel so permanent yet, at the same time, perfectly fluid.

Yes, we're born into the world with one name. But many of us spend our lives exploring, tweaking, and sometimes outright abandoning that original label. For some, the need to change a name is tied to transitioning to a new gender identity. But a name change can also reflect emotional growth, personal evolution, or even pure whimsy. We could yearn for something that fits like our favorite pair of jeans or leggings––I'm a curvy Millennial and will cling to the latter until I die.

Or, we want a name that doesn't make the barista cringe at the morning coffee rush.

When you think about how names function in society, it's no wonder they carry such weight. And, equally, this weight is not just burdened by trans and nonbinary individuals. Some cisgender folks adopt a nickname or alter their name to "blend in," Others, in contrast, might choose to honor their heritage or step away from it altogether. And then we have that timeless custom of changing your last name to match your spouse's after walking down the aisle: a profound moment of unity or a tradition they'd rather skip. Take your pick.

Whichever road you travel, the reality is that names are powerful. They're the calling cards of who we are or aspire to be. They remind us of the distance between the self we've grown from and the self we're growing into, and they say to the rest of the world, "Here I am."

It fascinates me that, in our era of changing handles, Instagram bios, and Zoom display names, many folks remain suspicious or even dismissive of chosen names, mainly when they belong to my transgender and nonbinary siblings. It's a phenomenon that baffles me because our society is no stranger to letting people rename themselves, whether it's pop stars rebranding for a new album or movie icons choosing flashier stage names. We can celebrate those transformations and buy into their brands, from purchasing tickets to wearing a T-shirt or singing their songs. So why do some draw a line at the door of trans people seeking names that resonate with our genuine selves?

And that brings me to the equally wild and baffling world of politics in 2025.

Any new administration should focus on urgent priorities, like policies to improve its citizens' living costs. But no. Amid all the talk of making groceries cheaper, President Donald Trump decided his administration's energies were better spent on eliminating DEI and rollbacking transgender rights. In between, Trump took time to issue an executive order renaming the Gulf of Mexico as the Gulf of America. You'd think that something that's been called the "Gulf of Mexico" for almost 400 years might warrant a little respect. Evidently not. On the same day, he also reversed the official name of the highest mountain peak in North America from Denali to Mount McKinley. An act that once again reignites a longstanding debate between Alaskans, indigenous communities, some very vocal Ohio lawmakers, and the federal government.

The irony made my head spin faster than these executive orders. Our government is enthusiastic about renaming a body of water and a mountain but can't muster even an ounce of empathy for trans and nonbinary people and our chosen names, pronouns, and gender identity. You have to wonder who in the White (Mad) House decided that name changes would show they're in charge, scrubbing progress from sites and society with each presidential decree.

All of this has made me think of how I chose my name and, more importantly, reaffirmed my confidence and grace as a trans woman.

Many moons ago, I moonlighted as a drag chanteuse. Even though I'd been through a name change before, swapping out my deadname for a stage name that packed a punch, I quickly learned that sometimes a stage name belongs onstage. At the start of my transition—and occasionally nowadays after a few cocktails—I was unapologetically vivacious, coquettish, and ready to dazzle. It was perfect at the club or behind the mic but a bit draining when navigating a grocery store aisle in sweats and no makeup.

I'm grateful to have traded in the grocery cart for Instacart as of late.

By 2021, I decided it was time to refine my name once again. A second legal name change that felt daunting yet liberating. This time, I wanted a name that fit me like a bespoke dress, not something that sparkled only under stage lights. I remember scrolling through lists of baby names and imagining my future signature on documents. Did I adopt my mother's name to honor the woman who brought me into this world? Should I take on my late aunt's name to honor the trans woman who guided me like a lighthouse on a stormy shore? Should I try to find a feminized version of my deadname, forging a link between my past and future selves? The process felt like speed dating with hundreds of potential identities.

But I found clarity in the same place I'd always found free and boundless: history books.

Growing up, my late grandfather was a masterful storyteller. He would spin tales of his native Haiti, painting pictures of turquoise beaches, verdant mountains, and lively marketplaces. But more than anything, I was enthralled by his stories of Haiti's history. One figure in particular was always prominent in his stories: Henry Christophe. Born into slavery, he fought alongside his fellow citizens to cast off colonial chains. After independence, he eventually crowned himself King, built majestic castles, and formed a royal court that sparkled with music, culture, and that sense of hard-won freedom.

I had my version of Bridgertondecades before the series and books entered our popular imaginations.

King Henry I of Haiti was more than a historical figure: he was family. My grandfather was a 5x great-grandson of Christophe, albeit illegitimate. There's something ineffable about knowing your ancestors overcame unspeakable hardships to forge a new reality. It made me believe I could do the same on a personal scale. No matter the obstacles, whether they were ignorant people misgendering me or bureaucratic red tape around name changes, I could persevere.

Little is taught in schools about Haiti's royal past, let alone its rich and proud history. Rarely do folks hear of the short-lived monarchy, crowned rulers, and the swirling debates over what it meant for a post-independence Black nation. But those stories were told at my grandfather's breakfast table and in his study, woven into my identity then and now. So, when I set out to choose a new name, I looked to the royal women who married these majestic men: Empresses Marie-Claire and Adélina, along with Queen Marie-Louise. And though she never wore a tiara, the name Elisabeth was still one that commanded my respect—my grandmother's name.

It felt like tapping into a wellspring of strength, wisdom, and courage—a magical link to people who refused to let anyone else define them.

So, after much internal debate, coffee, and maybe a few tears of joy and frustration, I decided upon Marie-Adélina Louise Elisabeth de la Ferrière. I know, it's a mouthful and perhaps proof of the running joke that trans women occasionally choose elaborate names. But each part of my name was chosen with intention. Even my last name was weighted with history. The Citadelle Laferrière is the imposing fortress King Henry built, standing strong through revolutions and earthquakes. It's a towering testament that, sometimes, after you overthrow oppressive forces, you create something so strong and grand that future generations can't ignore it. And in adopting that surname, I wanted to remind myself that I, too, can construct my stronghold.

A sense of self so solid that no wave of ignorance or hatred can tear me down.

I would be lying if I said stepping into my new name didn't come without challenges. A hyphenated, French-inflected name is hardly the easiest for English tongues. And you'd be completely accurate if the barista messes up my name on a to-go cup. But let's face it: if folks can learn to say Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, or Schwarzenegger without batting an eye, they can learn to say my name. Besides, I relish that it forces people to stop and pay attention. It's like handing someone a letter with a wax seal: it demands a little more care.

Why shouldn't our names command that kind of respect?

The day I submitted the court papers to the lawyer who took on my case—and I am forever thankful to legal nonprofit organizations who take up filings like mine—I rehearsed my name so many times I started fearing I'd forget how to say it. But the lawyer, a no-nonsense elderly woman who was enthusiastic, peered at me with a smile and said, "Well… that's quite a name. But a beautiful one." And in that moment, I felt the centuries of my lineage swirl around me, from the Haitian shores my grandfather remembered so fondly to the rebellious, unstoppable spirit of my cis and trans elders who refused to let the world define them. Two months later, I received legal recognition of my new name. A name that stands for freedom, unbreakable will, and, yes, a dash of dramatic flair.

Is it over the top? Maybe. But isn't life more fun that way?

Names can move us through time, bridging the past and future. They can commemorate loved ones or entire cultures, create brand-new identities, or connect us more deeply with who we've always been. When we choose our names, we tell the world that this life is our story and are not afraid to pen it. Auntie might still carry the swagger, strut her stuff down the concrete jungle in stilettos, and command the spotlight like she's back onstage. But offstage, Marie-Adélina de la Ferrière has the quiet grace and the unwavering confidence that comes from a history that's both personal and political, intimate and grand.

I hope this new administration and its supporters see how beautifully simple it is to respect our chosen names, pronouns, and diverse identities. If you believe a president has the authority to rename ancient landforms, surely a trans or nonbinary individual should have the authority to change their names without scrutiny. After all, if the so-called leader of the free world can sign a piece of paper to revise official maps unilaterally, then we should be able to draw new borders around who we are without apology.

After all, isn't it the American way?

So, whether you're eyeing a name change for the first time or the fifth, remember that your name is your personal brand, emotional anchor, and often your rallying cry. Let it reflect the fullest, most vibrant expression of who you are. If you choose a short and sweet name or something that belongs in a museum or palace, let it be a testament to your growth, courage, and lineage.

Whatever that lineage might be.

As for me, I'll keep carrying my name with the poise of the Haitian royals who inspired it and the playfulness of the drag persona who once claimed the stage. Because my name, however elaborate, is a promise to myself: that I'll never bow my head to ignorance, never let others define my story, and never lose sight of the legacy that flows through my veins. So, should you stumble upon me in some cozy coffee shop, where the barista is trying to master the art of calling out "Marie-Adélina!. I'll be here, sipping delicately and quietly, smiling at the knowledge of who I've always been and who I'm becoming.

And if Shakespeare were still around, he might raise a quill in salute and say, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."

The Advocates with Sonia BaghdadyOut / Advocate Magazine - Alan Cumming and Jake Shears

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Marie-Adélina de la Ferrière

Marie-Adélina de la Ferrière is the Community Editor at equalpride, publisher of The Advocate, Out, Out Traveler, Plus, and Pride.com. A Haitian-American trans woman, she tirelessly champions voices from the LGBTQ+ community, creating a vibrant community engagement approach that infuses each story with a dynamic and innovative perspective. Like and follow her on social: @lovabletransauntie.
Marie-Adélina de la Ferrière is the Community Editor at equalpride, publisher of The Advocate, Out, Out Traveler, Plus, and Pride.com. A Haitian-American trans woman, she tirelessly champions voices from the LGBTQ+ community, creating a vibrant community engagement approach that infuses each story with a dynamic and innovative perspective. Like and follow her on social: @lovabletransauntie.