WWhen I met my husband and learned that his name was Philip, I felt conflicted. I liked him as a person, but his name tasted like crunchy green pears, and I don't like green pears at all. My compromise was to call it Phil, which tastes more like a stewed pear—sweeter and not as crunchy. It's just a more palatable name in my opinion.
Luckily, I was 30 by the time I met Phil, so I had an explanation for my word-gustatory associations after years of strange looks from family and friends. I had lexical-gustatory synesthesia, one of the rarest forms of the phenomenon in which words or sounds trigger taste sensations. Researchers estimate it affects just 0.2% of the population.
I can't remember exactly when I started tasting people's names. It all started when I saw certain foods when I heard certain words. There was a boy in my elementary school class named Kevin, and whenever I heard his name, I saw a picture of bacon—which is weird because I didn't know about the actor Kevin Bacon at the time. I remember that I was always particularly good at remembering names. My elementary school teacher was fascinated by the fact that I could read register backwards.
I can't pinpoint exactly when I started tasting food on my tongue when I heard people's names—it must have been in early adulthood—but I remember the moment I learned that it was actually a well-known phenomenon. I was 28 years old and visiting the Melbourne Museum when I happened upon an exhibition on synesthesia and some of the more common forms, such as grapheme colour. When I read about this my brain lit up. I shouted to my parents: this is me, this is what I have! Although my form of phenomenon was not mentioned, something inside me knew that this was exactly what I had. It was the most exciting thing I've ever read.
There are two forms of lexical-taste synesthesia: Some people simply see an image of a certain food when they hear a certain word. For others, the word brings a real taste to the tongue.
I seem to have both forms, depending on the word. Bob, for example, tastes like a milk chocolate Easter egg on my tongue. I get toilet cleaner under the name Adrian, but thank God I can't actually taste it.
Naming my children was difficult for obvious reasons. Lucas, my son's name, tastes like a crushed or mashed very ripe banana, and that texture is fine for me because I love bananas. My daughter's name Alice is more difficult because it has to be spelled in a special way to make it taste good. With Elissa, for example, I see a blister that needs to be popped. Her father and I eventually settled on Alyssa, who evokes the image of falling autumn leaves. I don't feel anything when I hear her name, but I feel it crunch.
There are some words I prefer not to say because they taste bad – my first house was on Juwings Street, which tasted like a piece of chewing gum that had lost its flavor. Others will come up and feel like ice cream. The guy, for example, feels soft and squishy, like a marshmallow in my hand. It's an unconscious thing, and I wouldn't say it's particularly useful in everyday life. But it could be a fun party trick. Sometimes friends call me out of the blue and say, “Hey, I'm with my cousin Sarah, what kind of taste will she give you?”
I often wonder if there are other elements of my being that relate to my synesthesia. My sensitivity to smells, for example.
Facebook groups like Synaesthesia World have helped me find community and better understand my brain over the last decade or so. I've interacted with people with everything from grapheme-color synesthesia to auditory-visual synesthesia, but I have yet to meet another lexical-gustatory synesthete in person. I'd love to, because I think we'd have the most exciting conversation – if they have a nice-tasting name, of course.
