Sometimes people ask me what my birth name was. Or, if they’re really ignorant, they ask me what my “real” name is. Now, for years, I’ve just refused to answer because I simply didn’t want to. I didn’t like saying my former name. I didn’t like other people knowing it, and I certainly didn’t like hearing it. So just in case, on the off chance that someone, in that absurd way that our minds sometimes do, ended up saying exactly what they were trying hard not to say, it all seemed simpler if I just didn’t tell them.

Recently, though, I’ve been thinking more about why it is that I don’t like that question. I think that it comes down to a cost-benefit analysis, including the costs and benefits to both myself and the person asking. Here’s the way I figure it. A name, by itself, doesn’t mean much. Yes, some people are named for relatives, or historical figures, or biblical characters. And those names mean something in the context of their family, or community, or culture. But the name itself doesn’t hold a meaning—it’s just a series of syllables. And so, when some random friendly acquaintance, who doesn’t know much about my background, asks me what my name was, I assume that it’s mostly just idle curiosity. People want to know secrets, and my former name is perceived to be a particularly juicy one. So I don’t feel too bad denying them the satisfaction of their curiosity, since it’s not a meaningful curiosity. They aren’t going to know something more true or real about me by hearing my birth name. They’re not going to understand me in some new way because they know what I used to be called. They’re just going to have another piece of information that, frankly, doesn’t mean much out of the context of my childhood and my family.

But here’s the difference between them and me. My name is meaningful to me. Hearing it brings back a world of hurt, years of correcting well-meaning friends, and less accepting ones who weren’t even trying. My name is associated with parts of my life that, frankly, I’d rather not relive. It’s a reminder of pain that is long past, and the infrequency of those reminders makes them all the more startling when they happen. So, while it’s true that the risk of someone I tell slipping up and using my birth name is pretty slim, the possible outcome is pretty harsh. I don’t want to hear those syllables, since they’re far more than sounds to me. I don’t want a lover, or friend or, acquaintance to look at me like we’re co-conspirators whenever someone with my birth name introduces themselves at an event. We’re not co-conspirators. That pain is all mine, and I certainly haven’t come far enough to think it’s a fun inside joke, and am skeptical that I ever will.

Still, all this is a little heavy for casual conversations with friendly acquaintances. So, usually I just tell them that it’s my policy not to share my birth name. I hope, at those moments, that they’ll think twice before asking the same question of another trans person. Because the truth is, the asker already knows the most important name—the one that trans person has chosen to go by.