How come you’re calling me by my name?
“I’m an American, our names don’t mean shit.”
My mom wanted to name me Gage before I was born. At least, that’s my dad’s definitive recollection. My mom has been less forthright about this. I imagine if I ever go missing, the interviews with the two of them about my last whereabouts would be so contradictory the investigators would pronounce me dead out of frustration. Regardless, Colin is my name, so somewhere along the line, Gage was dropped.
Had my name been Gage, how different would I be? This sliding doors moment I had no control over could have altered everything for your author. Would the beginning of every school year be different as a teacher went down the roster only to see a Gage towards the bottom of the list?
We don’t get to pick our first name or our family name. We can disappear into a sea of Williams or Smiths if lucky. Some last names come with a burden, others with the key to every door in the world. Some of us choose to abandon our names over time. In college, someone close to me hated their last name and went by just their first and middle name when possible. They even used a monogrammed pen with just their first and last name as proof. I know what you’re thinking, who monograms a pen? Well, to be fair it was a gift. I’m told they still have it.
A name like mine is an extension of the privilege I was born with. It only becomes an issue at Starbucks. As a white guy with a nasally Midwest accent, “Colin” often becomes “Allen” when I’m ordering. It’s a failure to communicate I’ve gotten used to. Either that or I've been stealing a lot of coffee from Allens over the years and I’m not sorry.
Mishearing my name never bothers me. But if you write my name wrong? “Collin”? Motherfucker it’s on sight.
A friend of mine started a new role recently. It’s a prestigious posting and the organization wanted to create a biography of my friend for their website. The bio writer, who I’m sure is a fine person, butchered my friend's name so bad you’d think it was by design. This is a person they had been emailing with constantly. And last time I checked, email is a very name-forward medium.
I don’t think the names we’re given at birth are the names that define us. It’s our chosen name that’s etched into our souls. Robert Allen Zimmerman is just a dude from Duluth. But Bob Dylan is the icon Zimmerman created. Some will die with their name while others will change it long before they shuffle off. If you’ve lived a life worth a damn, maybe your name will outlive you. But one day, your name will be uttered for the last time. So between then and now, our names should be what we want to hear.
Our names are an agreement of respect—a way to acknowledge someone exists and is a fully realized person—the person they want to be. In an era where people hide behind usernames to seek anonymity, a person living their life in the open and asking to be called the name they prefer should be respected. If we can’t extend that small amount of grace, we are lost.
Except for nicknames, we don’t get to pick those. Your friends, family, and lovers get to pick your nicknames. That’s just a rule of life.
Our names don’t have to be grand, unique, or divine with meaning. They don’t have to be inherited, bought or sold. But, they’re our most personal possessions. John Proctor would trade his soul but not his name. We could all put some respect on each other’s names.
I started writing this because I was thinking about the history of names and why we have them. Honestly, the history of language is cool, but its origins interest me less than the future. Humans have been writing their names for centuries. It was four early civilizations – Mesopotamia, China, Egypt, and Mesoamerica – that revolutionized language by putting words down on script. Historians believe these cultures developed writing independently, with the first being Mesopotamia’s sometime around 3200 B.C. We know this happened, but can you name a Mesopotamian? I’ll wait. The last book bearing your name will eventually vanish into dust.
Colin Andrew Williams is not on the surface an interesting name. What does each of those words mean? On their own, not much. But together, they’re whatever I choose. Or maybe, “I’m an American, our names don’t mean shit.”
Pulp Fiction has all the answers.
See you on Christmas.
For more on names and languages read Jack Knudson in Discover Magazine.