What's in a name?

Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if I legally changed my name to something outlandish, like Jeffrey Garfunkle Tyberius Dimplebottom III. This is the kind of handle that demands a silk bathrobe and an overpriced sports car. At the very least, I could start smoking pipes indoors and nobody could say a darn thing about it. “Do you know who I am?” I’d ask defiantly, and by the time I was done telling them, they’d forget about their gripe and migrate to the chili dip.

 

It would be an odd thrill to have one of those laborious trust fund names – or even something simple and cool, like Billy Blaze, or Andy Awesomepants. The fact that this is actually possible – that there exists a means of legally changing our names to whatever we want – is kind of scary in a sense, as if we all harbor the potential to alter reality in some fundamental way. I’d never be able to pull the trigger, myself; I’ve grown into my name, and even though it sounds like an uncomfortable gastrointestinal disorder, it’s my identity. It’s me. I don’t know if our names define us or if we grow to define our names, but after a span of decades, I’m in too deep at this point, doomed to spend eternity sounding like a man who farts loudly in hardware stores.

 

Yet people change their names all the time, mostly married women who have adopted their husbands’ last names to indicate that I may no longer consider dating them. As a man, I’m relegated to the role of wondering what it would be like to practice a new signature, which would have the potential to complicate things in the future, since it’s still technically possible I could become a famous Major League pitcher. 

 

Obviously, it’s become tradition for a woman to assume her husband’s name, although there are instances when this practice is reversed – New Hampshire politician Dick Swett may want to consider this. The problem here is that it brings to the fore some thorny issues regarding gender inequality, issues that aren’t easily resolved. Unlike less progressive parts of the globe in which women are relegated to secondary roles, like homemaker or Vice President, the Western world is increasingly cognizant of the benefits of unchaining the fairer sex from antiquated values. But even if a woman decides to keep her birth name upon marrying, as is her prerogative, a marriage often produces children, and those children need names. You can’t altogether drop the practice of having surnames, because then the very idea of family would degenerate into confusion and inbreeding. And we’ve already got one Alabama.

 

So in this situation, choosing one name over the other in is one of those mildly uncomfortable necessities, like picking the music for that weekend drive to Laconia. (She says Shakira, I say Metallica. I will fight her to the death over this.)

 

Here, I recommend starting a new tradition: Choosing the name that would result in the fewest instances of schoolyard taunts and swirlies. This is where the process starts to get fun, because picking a handle for a child – or a pet, or a car, or the mole on the bridge of your nose – is one of life’s great arbitrary pleasures, one of the few instances in which one can let loose with unrestrained creativity. 

 

Let’s say Billy Boogerbeater marries Betty Butterballs, and both decide to keep their names, since both families have a rich tradition that can be traced back to Colonial Williamsburg. They saddle their firstborn with Boogerbeater, since in the 1980’s, Betty Butterballs bore the brunt of brazen brutality from boorish bullies in backwater Birmingham. Now the fun begins. There’s an entire encyclopedia of boys’ and girls’ names from which to choose, and if none prove satisfactory, Billy and Betty can simply go the celebrity route and name their offspring after acorns, or their favorite brand of saltwater taffy. All they need to keep in mind is that the life of this kid will, in some measure, be shaped by a name that defines their identity. Choose unwisely, and the child will grow up confused and resentful, and write meandering rants that indicate deep mental disturbances.

 

I suggest Bobby or Becca. No need to get fancy.

 

Thorny gender issues aside, the very concept of the name is almost as curious as the languages and cultures that spawn them – these words that mean us, that arrest our attention across streets and playgrounds and office buildings. 

 

Can an identity be reduced to letters and syllables? In 1973, Elton John recorded the original version of “Candle in the Wind,” which was written as a kind of farewell letter to Marilyn Monroe, who had died 11 years earlier. But Elton never mentions her by her stage name. The first line of the song begins, “Goodbye Norma Jean.” No matter how famous she became, “Marilyn Monroe” was never anything more than a phrase, a fiction that allowed her access to a certain kind of world. She was Norma Jean Mortenson. The world may not readily recognize that, but even during the height of Monroe mania, if someone had shouted “Norma Jean!” to her across a crowded theater, she would have turned her head to look. We can call ourselves whatever we want, change our names to symbols or the brand names of all-weather tires; but when Billy and Betty sit down to name their child, they’ll bequeath to it a jumble of letters weighted with more meaning than any other word in any other language. It’s the name that will appear in songs written about it, the one that will turn his or her head when spoken aloud. That’s a lot of responsibility for the parents, inventing a whole person in the space of one quick breath. And for the child, it’s an inescapable part of them, as intractable as height, or the length of their forearm.

 

So I guess I’ll keep Jeff Lagasse, out of respect. But let’s face it, Jeffrey Dimplebottom has a certain ring to it.