Hokey Pokey Wednesday: A Lot's in a Name

           During rush hour on the Southern State, there isn’t much to do except stare at the back of the car in front of you.

   

            Last week we were behind a cherry-red sports car with an engraved license-plate holder.

The top of it read: “Viviana & Hugh.” There were hearts and a date at the bottom.

            “I wonder how that happened,” I said to my son, Michael.

            “How what happened?” he asked.

            “How a Viviana wound up with a Hugh,” I said.

            “Why not?”

            “Because a guy named Hugh is down to earth, reasonable and grounded. He might wear a little bow-tie.”

            “And a Viviana?”

            “Dramatic and flamboyant. A flamenco dancer would be named Viviana.”

            “Who would put that on their car, anyway?”

            “Viviana would. There’s no way Hugh did that, except at gunpoint.”

            “Huh,” Michael said.

           

            Shakespeare wrote:

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

            Yes. But would we think of it the same way? Names do have certain connotations. Otherwise, we would all name our children “Jack” and “Jill.” (And even those invoke images of a hill and a bucket, and tumbling after.)

            Names have flavors, like ice cream.

            Some are vanilla – like Hugh.

            Some are strawberry banana kiwi with a little umbrella on top – like Viviana.

            You can also tell a lot about a parent by what they name their child, and you can be sure that subsequent names will be in a similar vein. A person who names their first child “Jade” might name their second one “Ruby.” Someone who names a first offspring “James” will not be considering “Zebulun” for the next.

            I went to a play once, in which brothers were named “Albert” and “Cougar.” That simply did not ring true for me. No way did the same mother name those two boys.

            Consider Frank Zappa’s children: “Moon Unit” and “Dweezil.”  They say a lot about Frank and his wife, don't they?

            I named by sons “Michael Ryan” and “Casey Quinn.”

            I'm not Irish. I just love Irish-style names. My mother thought I used the name “Ryan” because when I was in sixth grade I liked the soap opera “Ryan’s Hope.” Yeah, that would be a stable thing to do. 

            For the most part, people I’ve met have fit their names. How does this happen? I wonder if anyone has done a psychological study about this.

            Maybe our upbringings match our names, if that makes any sense. But I suspect parents raise their children in a manner consistent with our names.

           

            But what do I know? I’m just a writer who thinks too much about these things.

            What’s in a name? For me, it’s the first insight into a character. As a matter of fact, Willow, the narrator of my novel Saved By the Music, first appeared in my head ranting about how much she hated her wishy-washy name, - and how her mother, Isodora, purposely named her Willow to keep her down, like a drooping willow tree.

            For all humans, a name is that first piece of the puzzle that makes us who we are.

 
           For a cat who hears you calling him, it’s supper.