Serena Joy

A note on my name and the woman who gave it to me.

My name is Serena Joy Utah Miller.

When I was a child, I didn’t like my name. Serena felt too flowery. Joy was a stretch. Utah—I mean, why would anyone name a child after a state? (No offense to all the Dakotas and Virginias and Georgias out there.)

But with age, I’ve come to love my name—and the reasons my parents gave it to me.

Serena was a character on Bewitched. As a child, my mother decided that would be the name of her daughter, should she have one. Well, she had one at birth. I have since become her child, her progeny—not a daughter, certainly.

Joy was given to me for Ode to Joy. My mother also wanted to name me something opposite of her self-proclaimed title of “neurotic misery.” Serena Joy—peaceful happiness. She wanted me to turn out less depressed than she. (Sorry, Mom—it didn’t work.)

Utah was my father’s choice. He named me after his favorite state. As a child, I asked him why he would name me after a state. He would reply, “It’s not a state, it’s a state of mind.” Okay, Dad, you hippie.

As I said, I’ve come to appreciate my name as I’ve aged. It’s unique—like me!—and it’s mine. And it was given with thought and love and reverence. Recently, though, I’ve thought quite a bit about being named Serena Joy while living in an oligarchic dystopia.

When I was ten or so—definitely too young—my parents sat me down in the basement on our old yellow leather couch to watch the 1980s Handmaid’s Tale film, starring Natasha Richardson and Faye Dunaway. When Dunaway appeared onscreen, my mother pointed and said, “Oh, this is the evil bitch!” Dunaway, as I remember it—though it’s been 17 years since I watched the film—opens her arms to greet Richardson’s Offred and says, “I’m Serena Joy.” I looked at my mother, horror-struck, and said, most likely verbatim, “What the fuck, Mom?” She stared in awe and said, “Oh my God, I forgot!”

I’ve read The Handmaid’s Tale. I’ve watched the HBO show starring Elizabeth Moss—it’s a beautiful adaptation of a truly dismal story, one that is based in the history of the mistreatment of Black and indigenous women in the United States and beyond. And in the story, Serena Joy is one of the most heinous criminals guilty of betraying her fellow humans in favor of a return to “traditional” Christian Nationalist values.

I am the opposite of Serena Joy. I am kind and empathetic. I work hard and do what I can to try to fight for the greater good, especially in a time when it is becoming increasingly terrifying and difficult. And I will not give up. I will not surrender. I will not betray my fellow humans.

I think there is a certain significance in having a name that is the same as a despicable character, even and especially if that name was given with love and is merely an unfortunate coincidence. I am the real Serena Joy. I will bear my name with a sense of responsibility and pride until my last breath.

This letter is not just about my name, of course. It is about the woman who bore me. The woman who has given me everything she has. The woman who has shaped everything I have become.

My mom is a fighter. My mom is a badass. My mom is the best mom I could have asked for. She has her faults, as do we all, but she is wonderful and compassionate and has raised me to be the same. She did not name me after a monster, as much as I may perpetuate that joke. She gave me my name with the hope that I could be a force for good in the world.

I don’t have to wonder if I’ve made my mother proud—I know I have. She tells me every day. She makes me proud, too. Every damn day.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. And happy Mother’s Day to all the moms who have given their all and then some to their kids; that is not a given in this world. I got lucky.

My name is Serena Joy Utah Miller. My mother put me on this earth to kick ass and take names. I’m coming for yours, Serena Joy Waterford. I’m just getting started.