Saturn’s Return: An Afterthought

Every word has a root. Passion comes from the Latin word for suffering. Interjection comes from two Latin words that mean to throw into. Peach actually comes from a Greek word that means Persian because in antiquity, the peach was the “Persian apple,” mêlon persikón.

Every name has a root. Your name means something. Your parents gave you that name. They gave it to you for any number of reasons. And to say that you—who your parents barely knew when they gave you that name—and your name are as intrinsically tied as a word and its root is crazy.

But I believe in it.

Serendipity, synchronicity, fate. I kind of just believe.


I spent my childhood being a weird, little amateur etymologist, who fucking loved telling people that my name meant farmer.

“It’s a Greek word,” I would say proudly. “It means one who tills the earth.”

I went through a small period during junior high when I realized that all the pretty girls at school had names that meant princess or purity or some other cute shit and I was embarrassed about my name. It also didn’t help that my name hadn’t been a popular name since the 1880s. I had an old lady name. An old lady name that meant farmer.

I spent twenty years thinking that my name was just the feminine form of the name George and meant farmer. But that wasn’t really true. Yes, Georgia is the feminine form of George as far as names go, but in Greek—in Greek!—Georgia does not mean the same thing as George. I had been wrong the whole time.

Because it’s like this:

In Greek,

eriorgos is a wool worker,
eriorgia is wool working

thalassorgos is a fisherman,
thalassorgia is fishing

hierorgos is a sacrificer,
hierorgia is sacrifice

Georgia isn’t the one who tills the earth. Georgia is the tilling of the earth.

Georgia is Agriculture.

Maybe that’s why Saturn doesn’t scare me. Saturn is my bitch.

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