I have always been particularly sensitive to names. I come from a long line of women named Corinne--but not just any long line. While the typical family might take the traditional route in choosing a baby name that honors an aunt or a great-grandmother, in my family we name our daughters after ourselves.

Sure, many people get a kick out of knowing that my mother and I and her mother before us share the same name, but the situation has raised more than its fair share of practical difficulties over the years. At home over vacation, I was reminded of the many times in high school when I cringed at the sound of the telephone, fearing the timeless question, "Is Corinne there?" knowing that I would have to guess which Corinne the caller was hoping to speak to. I would inevitably fail half the time, and in typical high school fashion, I was always mortified.

My father was little help. Not only did he encourage my mother to carry on the tradition with my first name, he had to go and contribute his last name to the mess. The crowning blow to a brooding teenager is to give her a last name which illicits cringes and snickers from everyone from teachers to pizza deliverers. I have always had starry-eyed visions of marrying a man with an aesthetically-pleasing last name, even as the feminist in me screams that I am falling into the trap of patriarchy by wanting to give up my own for his.

Ah, yes. The feminist in me has come to believe that even something as seemingly simple as taking a new name along at marriage can be at best politically charged and at worst worthy of condemnation. No doubt because of my own personal experience, I have always liked the feminist emphasis on the importance of picking fair and accurate names for objects, groups, and people. I count myself among the legions of women often responsible for propelling the use--some say overuse--of politically correct speech. These days, I go about passionately correcting any sort of gender bias I hear in the language around me. Even my Discman has become a Discperson. While I may occasionally go to the extreme, I truly believe that gender-neutral words can and will promote gender-neutral thinking.

As a result, I feel that it is absurd that Dean of the College Harry R. Lewis '68 chose to veto the resolution by the Undergraduate Council which proposed that the word "freshman" be replaced by "first-year" in all official University documents. While I certainly believe that there are more tangible issues of gender that must be worked out on this campus, the need to change the language is just as urgent in my mind. The simple switch to "first-year" in official University language will validate changes that are already taking place in common parlance, and ensure that no student should feel that she does not fully belong here because she is a woman, no matter how subtle that message may be.

Of course, traditions die hard. Even as a self-proclaimed gender policewoman, I still tend to blurt out "Freshman Week" or "Freshman Dean's Office" if I am not being careful. Dean Lewis does have a point that "first-year" might sound a little awkward, and that there might be a better substitute to the offending word. Or maybe "freshman" is just one of those words in the "who would want to be one anyway?" category--like "garbageman" and "hitman"--that even the most strident p.c. advocates are content to leave alone.

Nevertheless, the act of naming pervades everything we do. What we call ourselves is crucial in defining how we relate to and perceive each other. Sure, it may be too late to change some names ("Why don't they spell out your middle name on top of your column?" says my mother, "It might make the whole thing look better.") But we should seize the opportunity to change the ones we can. It is time to move beyond "freshmen" and call ourselves by a term that really reflects a student body of both men and women.

Corinne E. Funk's column appears on