What’s in a NAME?
Notes From the Wrong End of Life
I was thinking the other day. It’s a thing I’ve been accused of doing too much of. Thinking. I don’t accept one can think to excess, most people don’t seem to do enough of it, and look where that’s got us. Anyway, I decided I really do dislike my name.
It’s not my name at all. It belongs to my parents and they lumbered me with it, no choice or consultation and there it is. My name. We try to like our names and we stick with them. We could change them but mostly we don’t. It sort of feels disloyal as well as being a costly and somewhat bureaucratic process.
it’s a strange tradition when you consider it. Letting adults with their questionable judgment choose appalling monikers, which helpless infants must then lug through life. That mewling mess of biology certainly didn’t ask to be born, let alone christened Apple or Bildad before being able to grasp object permanence. Imagine if we all gestated in amniotic anonymity, only taking names when of age and sound mind to choose our own. Those first eighteen years we’d be known only by our barcoded wristband ID to spare us the lifelong consequences of our parents’ whims.
Upon reaching the age of reason, children could thoughtfully select their new appellation and rebrand themselves as Maverick or Luna Lovegood. Of course, most would probably just resignedly accept the familial yoke.
Though to be honest as far as governmental administration goes we are already just numbers. Driving licence numbers, passport numbers, health system numbers, and even birth certificates have numbers. Our names are already meaningless to bureaucracy. And there are an infinite collection of numbers to choose from you would never ever meet someone with the same number as you; rather than the 26 letters of our Latin alphabet.
Imagine a world where we self-identify only when ready! Hospital nurses could simply announce “New Human 1234567689, born at 7:02 AM.” And we’d each possess those pristine early years as nameless, free-range beings, unencumbered by the relative’s whim that saddled us as Talulah Ofilia for all perpetuity.
Those bobbing cherubs have no say as Mama brainstorms over Baby Name Books that clearly should be categorized as horror fiction. Little KV45139 cries from its crib, oblivious of the parental deliberations that shall designate it Peaches Magillicuddy or Wellington Wigglesworth, identities then scrawled immutably on the (numbered) birth certificate.
Perhaps expecting infants to select their own names is unreasonable. Though preferable to great-aunt June KjallsvkyDaiyz from Schenectady demanding a namesake. No, best to leave children numerically anonymous until grown enough to rechristen themselves.
You’d think that as a species we’d have worked out ideal naming practices after a gazillion years of civilization, but it seems we can’t help saddling each new generation with our questionable moniker whims.
Of course, names carry the baggage of our ancestors’ imaginations and cultural milieu too. While today Nevaeh may inspire teasing, it’s no sillier than 17th-century favourites like Charity or Prudence. Though I’d personally avoid christening any child Elon these days, for their own sanity’s sake. Mr Musk's children will not thank him for naming them E=MC2 or YU+X = N or whatever the hell he’s called the newest one.
We do our youth no favours by naming them after pop culture ephemera either. In 20 years’ time, classrooms will abound with drifting Daeneryses whose mothers moved on from that fandom faster than a Rhaegal dragon fart. Too cruel.
Think of the classroom register relief when Ms. Franklin shouts “6839Q!” rather than wrestling with “Krzytalnachtfuntime.” No need to rescue “Teriyaki” and “Marinade” from the cruel school playground joke mill. Your lifelong identity is no longer determined by the whimsical family tree, but by considered reflection as a sage adult. Or at least by a drunken karaoke rapper name you meant as a one-time joke, but the judge legally notarised it, so here we are as MC Daddylonglegs.
However, our species’ obsessive penchant for labelling the living daylights out of everything in sight has useful attributes, which is just as well as we simply can’t resist slapping a title on all creatures and things under the sun, or beyond for that matter — then we’re stuck with the consequences.
Of course, this serves the sensible purpose of distinguishing that recumbent, slobbering beast over there as Rover. Instead of the equally recumbent, slobbering beast over here known as Spot. Crucial information for preventing one from yelling “No, Spot!” when Rover pees on the sofa again.
But in our zeal, we’ve coined some cracking odd names that make one pine for the simplicity of woof and meow. Consider the firefly — how much more vivid than calling it a lightning bug, as if sculpted from thunderbolts and spare electrons? And don’t get me started on prairie dogs. Clearly the handiwork of a homesick pioneer who wouldn’t know a badger from a bison.
The animal kingdom offers plenty of nom de plume trip-ups. The hornbill boasts no horns. The titmouse is no mouse. The Flying Lemur neither flies nor is it a Lemur and a slug moth will not leave a trail of goo on your lettuce. Though if you’re serving me slug moth salad, I’ll pass altogether and just exactly what is an Aye-aye? Some do have useful descriptive names. The Sloth is as described. Likewise, the Duck Bill Platypus, and somehow ‘Shark’ really does seem to fit both the appearance and attitude of that aquatic denizen.
Don’t even get me started on fruits and vegetables. Whoever looked upon the underwhelming kumquat and thought. “There’s a mighty name for an oval orange the size of an infant’s eyeball”? The Gooseberry has nothing whatsoever to do with geese - no feathers or honking or anything. At least the banana slug chose truth in advertising — that legless yellow mass knows what it is.
Sage linguists have informed me this obsession with nomenclature is down to nouns being critical building blocks of language. Assigning names allowed those most ancient Homo sapiens to convey “Don’t poke that sabre-toothed tiger” much quicker than grunting and miming. Essential advice, since the average vocabulary decreased drastically around hungry smilodons.
Nouns allow us to classify objects and concepts into distinct groups and categories (poodles and terriers are types of dogs). This helps organize information and applying specific names to things allows us to refer to them unambiguously vs. just generically ( “Aunt Jean” vs. “that relative”). Crucial for clear communication. Though limited in its success in my experience.
Some names carry additional meanings, associations or emotional significance beyond just denoting the thing itself. This is an abstraction. Abstract nouns name intangible concepts like “love”, “fear”, or “democracy” so we can discuss these ideas, or do our best not to discuss them.
Then there’s Metonymy. Using the name of one thing to represent a related larger concept (e.g. “Washington” referring to the government). This allows symbolic reference although it can go wrong for the literal-minded like me. “Don’t drink and drive” led to many parched-throated trips until explained it only referred to drinking alcohol. Inferred meaning is a pain it really is. Don’t get me started on when a friend told me he had a new set of wheels.
This linguistic device merges into something called -Synecdoche. It is naming a part to represent the whole, like “boots on the ground” signifying not as it should; a lot of boots on the floor, but soldiers on the battlefield. Apparently, this enables rhetorical flourishes. I’m sure you know my particular feelings on this matter. Most imprecise.
So at least there’s some rhyme and reason to this naming lark — though not nearly enough for my liking. They don’t just label things — they shape and structure thought and expression in critical, and often not-so-critical ways.
But I still hate my name. Nobody else does, just me.
