Reciprocity is a word that lately comes up a lot – particularly in DEI circles. For me, it came up during a weekend retreat a few years ago with Braiding Sweetgrass author, Robin Wall Kimmerer who helped a group of us explore how living beings offer us gifts and lessons, even if we’ve forgotten how to hear their voices. While reciprocity in terms of human and more-than-human beings was the topic, it got me thinking about reciprocity in general. And how the outcome of it can move worlds.
Here’s an example: My birth name is Christine Marie Yanni. I’ll be honest with you, I never felt connected to the name. It has Christian undertones which I struggled with most of my life. As a child I was called “Chrissy” which made me feel diminutive, and as an adult, I adopted “Chris” because it felt more neutral and versatile. And since I professionally grew up in the transition period from phone to email, using “Chris” opened more doors for me than Christine ever could. (I can’t tell you how often I would hear that surprised voice from a man who assumed, after a few email exchanges that I, too, was a man. Clever girl.)
Where am I going with this?
I never felt connected to my name until last year when I had the privilege of working with an HBCU in North Carolina. My experience with Black people is that a name – a full name – is more than identity-building – it commands respect and recognition. Something sorely lacking for so many generations. To be honest, I could never relate. Sometimes I found it pretentious. Why the formality I would ask myself? These views and questions originate from my whiteness of course.
Reciprocity comes when we do things by and with each other – and not for each other. The outcome requires the honing of new skills – particularly for those of us trained as researchers told to check our biases at the door. (More on that in a future post.)
But this is where my story circles back: by embracing the reciprocal nature of names, of giving and receiving honor through them, I’ve come to see my own name in a different light. It’s more than a label; it’s a bridge to understanding and connection. In that sense, Christine Marie has finally found its place in my life, not just on paper, but in the spirit of reciprocity that I now understand and strive to embody.
And that wouldn’t have happened for me without (1) being invited into the space that is the HBCU and (2) arriving with an open heart ready to learn and grow together with the people who wanted to call me by my full name. It was within the community’s warm embrace that I truly understood the power of a name spoken with respect and intention. This simple act, a cornerstone of their cultural fabric, taught me the profound impact of recognition and the deep roots of identity. Now, my name feels like a gift returned, an echo of appreciation and belonging—a testament to the communal journey of sharing, learning, and honoring each other.
That, my friends, is my story of reciprocity. What might yours be?