Out Your Head

Before We Go Any Further

We need to start at the beginning of me. I arrived in this world at approximately 9:15 AM on Thursday morning, January 18th—an intrepid, courageous little thing entering a landscape marked by division and chaos. “A bastard born into a bastard world,” sums up my introduction to the outside world. It was a cold, miserable day when my mother squeezed me into the harsh reality of life.

My birth certificate bears the name Kenneth Oswald Calland, with my mother listed as Elsie Margarete Calland. But my father’s name? Blank. “Father: No Name” was the first cry of my existence, a haunting echo that has followed me throughout my life.

Some say that as babies, we see and hear everything. Our souls remain intact from a previous life; some even remember the moment of conception. Spooky, isn’t it?

It’s All in the Name

The Name, The Name, The Name—if I repeat that enough times, it loses its meaning. What is the name?

Get ready for this one—it can get confusing. I’ve legally changed my name through deed poll three times. The first time was when I was eighteen and needed a passport. I realised my name hadn’t been changed after my stepdad adopted me, so I became Kenneth Oswald Baker, known as Kenny Baker. I wasn’t truly a Baker; I never bonded with the Baker family. I felt like an anomaly, a blip that didn’t fit in. They were always polite, but I wasn’t one of them. At family gatherings, I felt uncomfortable way back then never really went to any Baker gatherings, there were lots of Calland get togethers for all types of occasions, it was a proper party tribe, but i always felt like the little black sheep, bleating and getting drunk. Alcohol was my perfect friend and soother.

I got on with it and it all seemed fine until I got to my mid forties and became curious about the origins of my name, coinciding with my interest in my biological father. I asked my mum where my names came from, especially Kenneth—why did you call me Kenneth? Her response was bewildering: it was fashionable at the time of my birth. And Oswald? That was an uncle who died down on the docks just before I was born.

I was never comfortable with the name Kenneth—or Kenny, as I was known. It didn’t fit; it wasn’t me. So when my stepdad passed away, I decided to change my name back to Calland. I wasn’t a Baker—no bloodline or DNA connected me to them—and I sought balance and understanding of who I was. In the process, I made Oswald my first name and abbreviated it to Oszey. I wanted to drop Kenneth entirely, as it held no significance, being named after some fashionable celebrities from the late ’50s and ’60s.

To my surprise, my mum got very upset about my desire to drop Kenneth, Kenny . She made me promise to keep it as my second name, saying I would always be her Kenny. So, I became Oszey Kenny Calland.

During this time, I grew more curious about my biological father. I eventually connected with someone who knew “Father No Name’s” family and got to meet his sister, my auntie. I discovered though this brief but informative meeting that I was named after my ‘father no names’ deceased brother, Kenneth Luby, who died at eighteen in 1945, fighting for the British army. He’s buried in Allerton Cemetery, where many of my mum’s relatives rest. Spooky. I also got a lot more insight and information on the relationship that my mother and father had and how it affected both families and the distress they caused by their relationship, creating me in the process.

This period was intense as I sought to uncover my roots while caring for my mum, who was dying of a terminal illness. I hoped she would open up and reveal the full story, but she only shared little gold nuggets, taking the unresolved fragmented story of my life to the grave. My psychological state took a battering during this time—juggling being a full-time carer, trying to discover who my true father was and why there was such a shadow history to it all. And then grieving the loss of my mum, the now-missing link holding the keys to my past. I became an emotional rollercoaster becoming the hard man with no emotion just a will to survive and move on. Six months after my mum passed away, I found myself living in Thailand—“the great escape.” More on that later.

Everything went quiet after that in my search for Kenny; I simply became Oszey, never using Kenny again. It was eleven years after my mum’s death while at university in Cheltenham that a good friend, Mary, offered me a chance to live in her cottage in Sligo, Ireland, for a couple of months. It was there that another name change began to emerge. I was in an isolated location perfect for meditation and reflection when I met Jeanie, a lady living in the end cottage, who was into genealogy. Jeanie opened the doors of inquiry putting the light back on to help me see who I was.

I discovered that the name Calland originates from Ireland; my mum’s family were Irish—a fact never discussed in the Calland family. By Jeanie’s reckoning, I had Calland family history in Roscommon, ten miles from where I stayed, and ‘father no names’ family connections ten miles the other way in Sligo.

Through extensive meditation and inner exploration, I decided to create a new name for myself, letting the old one go. After researching the psychological effects of names, Sonna Aronaran was birthed—the Happy Loner. With no family left, all ghosted, it felt perfect for me.

I recently discovered that the name Oswald comes from my Grandad, John Oswald Calland—a man my mum physically and mentally fought with, especially when he came home drunk from the pub. She would carry me from where I was sleeping and run out the other door to my aunt’s house on the next street. I believe her when she told me she fought with him, taking punches and punching back, but he never laid a finger on me. My Grandad was the only man I loved; I cried at his funeral.