Angie, Angela or Dr. Dye

There is so much in a name. 

Well, at least for me there is.

Going back to when I was in high school, I told a teacher she didn’t have a right to call me Angie… that it was a name only for my friends.

If you are shocked to learn I was THAT student in my K12 experience, I am here to tell you that I absolutely was (click here to better understand why). But whether or not I was disrespectful, it was there that I put my stake in the ground that not only do words matter, naming a person does as well.

“There is so much in a name.“

Most of the name game that I’ve been playing lately is in if I am Angela or Dr. Dye. 

Rarely do I have to play this game in black spaces because there is something about the legacy of slavery, Jim Crow, red lining, the miseducation of black children, and the prison pipeline industry that is activated when a fellow black person learns that I hold a doctorate. From there, they insist on calling me Dr. Dye,  as in, vibrationally, they are part of disrupting the historical violence waged against Black folks. Even though I usually try to redirect them to call me Angela (when secretly, I just want to be called Angie but I will share more about that later), the person standing in front of me– looking like me (not because we are familially related by blood but because we are politically related by melanin)–  won’t have it any other way. Even my own uncle (and sometimes my aunt) insists on calling me doctor. So from here I realize that Dr. Dye has very little to do with me as a person but everything to do with me as a symbol– one that represents persevering in a historical system that has had a hostile relationship with the black community.

Ironically, it’s a different but similar experience when I’m among my white comrades. Mostly in work settings, I find that white women and white men bypass my credentials by default. I try to give them the benefit of the doubt because they don’t share my relationship with history… or with power for that matter.  For them, power is located in their skin tone, making it an unspoken but very real instrument in their toolbox. It’s a powerful thing to be awarded intellectual authority without a doctoral reference. And while I think intellectual authority can be showcased in a number of ways (many of which I embody as well), I think it is telling when they refuse to give me my proper handle. No one fights with a woman when she goes from Ms. to Mrs. Yet, I have to stand firm that I’m no longer Ms. Dye.  I am Dr. Dye. And because they don’t want to– especially because they don’t want to, I demand that they put some respect on my name.

Honestly, I use to be ambivalent about the doctor handle. I had other black women advise me that it was a cultural obligation to carry it boldly and unabashedly. But, trying to model after my oppressor, I wanted to present myself as power neutral (pretending as though my degree holds no power)… presenting myself as Angela was the best way to do so. But when noticing that they insisted on bypassing it (and sometimes outright challenging me on the designation), I knew there was an unspoken battle happening. If my doctorate can be symbolic for black folks, then can’t it be one for white folks as well? If Black people have been having an historical experience, again, can’t it be said that Whites have been having one as well?

If I am introduced to you as Dr. Dye or if I sign off as Dr. Dye and you still take the liberty to ignore my lead, well then that can only come from privilege. And that tells me you are more familiar with leading and not following when it comes to black bodies. It tells me that your historical authority pushes my modem day achievement to the side.  Finally it tells me that even though it has been argued as an unnecessary expense (as opposed to a professional investment) or that it’s simply a piece of paper (and not an extensive repertoire of research, theories and words on instruction, race and power), that ultimately it is a political event. So if my doctorate is an issue of disruption and persistence for those of us at the bottom of a racial caste system, then it very well could be one of fear and threat for those racially at the top.

“Mostly in work settings, I find that white women and white men bypass my credentials by default.“

There are many different ways that I make the point about the acceptable ways to address me when in predominately white spaces but in all of it, I make sure (low key and sometimes blatantly) I tell the story of my ancestors and my community. And I do it through my name. It’s not Angela. It’s Dr. Dye and thank you.

But, this piece wasn’t really supposed to be about me being doctor and it certainly wasn’t supposed to be about white people (at least not consciously).  It was purposed to be about my desire for intimacy when I’m among other black people and how that desire, for me, is represented by my name.

Now in truthfulness, being called doctor by my uncle could be a huge intimacy assault but, as many of us in the margins will often do, I choose politics over the personal, and accept that him calling me doctor is a political act more than it is intimate one.

“But, as many us in the margins will often do, I choose politics over the personal, and accept that him calling me doctor is a political act more than it is intimate one.

When I was growing up, I was Angie. In some spaces, I was even Angel (until I did something “devilish” as I was told). As a childhood experience, Angie is the vulnerable… the me that is learning and growing… the me that yearns for the trust and love of others while out in the world trying to figure it all out.

So, I carried Angie as my preferred name all the way through college, grad school and the start of my teaching career. It wasn’t until I became the executive director of a school that I designed, founded and operated that my name changed to Angela.

Why did I make the shift? I think the answer is that I moved to (or wanted to move to) a place of strength– and possibly authority– that being vulnerable as Angie no longer suited me. I’m not sure I would hold this position today but don’t think I could have articulated this position back when I was trying be manager- supervisor- director.  But I truly think it tells the story of my relationship to intimacy and power– seeing them as mutually exclusive.

Is power void of vulnerability, of learning and growing … of trust and love? Today I would vehamately say no (and I’m sure researcher Brene Brown would agree with me) but I must argue that it is a false construct that I inherited from the world around me.

“But I truly think it tells the story of my relationship to intimacy and power– seeing them as mutually exclusive.”

I’m currently writing this reflection while laying across my bed. I just shared something deeply personal via a family thread and found myself triggered.

What triggered me? Well, this did…

“Thank you for sharing Angela. ❤️”

With the heart emoji and all, being referred to as Angela in a place of vulnerability was hard.  Now, this isn’t to say that the family member who shared it was being heartless nor would I argue that she was rendering me heartless.  Truthfully, her saying Angela and not Angie could have been her way of connecting to the full, grown up me and not the child,  unsure, yearning me. But either way, the child unsure yearning me is still very much a part of me. In my work, I have to park her… as much as I can.  But in personal spaces, I don’t want to park her. I want her to come to the table and be loved on and covered as well as be respected and treated with all the dignity of the adult me still in tact.

“Being referred to as Angela in a place of vulnerability was hard.”

It’s a tall order expecting others to know how to navigate the strong me with the vulnerable me.  Hell, it’s one I’m still trying to figure out.  It’s a crappy place to be in that there are very few models of powerful people who are also vulnerable, still growing and learning, and yearning. But they say, “If it is to be, then it is up to me ” So maybe I have to be that model for the generations that will follow.

Many of you know that I study personality theory. Well in two of the theories I spend the most time with, my supposed “personality” doesn’t contend well with vulnerability. It’s just not an easy part of my psyche. But in both theories, it is argued that I will be a better person if I can  learn to embrace being vulnerable as a very human experience.

So that is what I’ve been working on over the past ten years. I think I’m doing okay which is why I have taken to playing and being silly outloud on tiktok or why I started a second podcast where I am semi-out as vulnerable, talking through very painful and personal experiences.

In the past three years I have been pushed back into leadership (another reflection for another day). I have tried to bring a more authentic me to the table. It hasn’t been easy because I’m leading in the same workforce that told me I couldn’t be authentic and vulnerable in the first place. And it’s the same world where I’m still doing the political work of my ancestors as Dr. Dye.

Needless to say it is a journey. And sometimes it’s a bumpy one. But if #empowermentstartshere truly is a thing, well I guess I’m here for the ride. In my doctoral studies I learned that the brain needs an emotional experience in order for deep learning and storage to occur. What does it say about leadership or even familial love if we are showing up as invulnerable and/ or inauthentic — both which are shallow conditions of strength and love?

“There are very few models of powerful people who are also vulnerable, still growing and learning, and yearning.”

So yes. There is a name game. And Angie Angela, and Dr. Dye is now how I play it. Of course there are other names I use in the game. I have two pseudonyms as a writer and as a content creator, I have a Karaoke stage name (lol, I really do) and I have a name I use when I’m in the initial courtship of dating (heaven knows that is a game).

Sometimes I wonder if the name game causes me to be disjointed but then I think about the different sides of me that I just don’t want to ignore.  I’m professional, creative, vulnerable, ambitious, independent, yearning, directive, and unconventional. There are not many places that are welcoming and inclusive of all of the me that I am.

So in short, the name game is a social game. It’s political. It’s a game of how many bucks I have to give on any given day.

Although quite personal, I’m going to post this reflection on my professional sight. I want my colleagues and family to know when I’m Angie, Angela and Dr. Dye. It’s not that I expect them to change their defaults and act according to my liking. But, as a consummate educator (and disruptor), it sure as heck will feel good knowing the explanation is here just in case anyone wants to know.

So whether I’m strong or vulnerable– academic or yearning– you’ll know who I really am to you by the name I allow you to call me.