What’s in a Name?

“I’m going to be a big brother”

My son and his bride are anticipating the birth of their second child. With their first, they wanted to be surprised, so they dove into the name selection ritual for two genders. “No not Louisa; I went to elementary school with a Louisa and she was definitely in the ‘mean girl’ contingent.”

This time, their son, is also “expecting”, so they conceded to learn the gender and are playing the “Name Game,” with only one gender. “Shirley, Shirley, Bo-ber-ley, Banana-fanna fo fer-ley, Fee -fi-mo- mer-ley. Shirley!” (The 1964 Shirley Ellis song probably isn’t source material for naming their impending bambino.)

Parents spend a lot of time thinking about names. With our firstborn we used a book of 15,000 names and ended up in the Ts before we agreed on something. Some parents agree earlier than we did. Some wait until the baby is born, “He doesn’t really look like a Seymour – Murray?”

This can be dangerous. Imagine a mother after a difficult labor, just wanting to rest, but being pressured by nurses, doctors and hospital administrators. “Is it going to be John or James? John or James? John or James?” That was the story told by E.O. Jones, the barber shop owner who cut my hair in college.

“They kept on pestering my mother, ‘John or James? John or James?’ till finally she burst out ‘I don’t care, either one. And that’s what they wrote down Either One Jones. You can see why I go by E.O. Still once a month I have to tell that story.” E.O. was seventy at the time.

Naming a child is an awesome responsibility. You are defining a large part of their life, and how they will introduce themselves forever. “Tegan, like Megan, but with a T.” “Sunshine, yes my parents were hippies.” Gabriel, yeah, like the archangel.”

“I got a name, I got a name”*

Alan is easy, though there are three common spellings and many less common ones. People want to call me “Al,” which was fine with me up until age nine when my sister married an Alan who was called “Al.” My family started using my first and middle name to distinguish us “Alan Cay,” and I started calling myself Alan at school.

My middle name caused me some grief in elementary school. “Cay? That’s a girl’s name!” My sisters don’t have middle names. “They’d just lose them when they got married.” (The 1930s and 40s were not a particularly liberated time and my parents were products of the culture they lived in.)

There is some question about the origin of my middle name, Cay. My parents always told me that they just liked the way it sounded. They alluded to the big band leader Kay Kyser. They were introduced to the potential utility of middle names, by their neighbors, the Auchmoodys  who named their daughter Alice Arlen in case Alice pursued a career in the Arts and wished to drop her venerated, but not media-friendly Scots surname.

My sister, named Constance, called Connie by the family, but Constance in her arts career, started a rumor that Cay was a family name from my maternal grandmother’s family, Weir. Connie said found an Angus Cay Weir in an old maroon Weir genealogy book. She said she brought this to my mother’s attention who said “Don’t tell your father.”

Connie could have been feeding my identity crisis, which she did a lot. “Maybe you’re adopted.” I remember the book, but it was lost before we cleaned out my parents’ house. My sister Carolyn, called Lynne since the late 1950s, says that she has no memory of my naming. So the origins of Cay remain a mystery.

I assiduously hid Cay until my mid-twenties. The IRS knows me as Alan C. Culler. There was the whole “girl’s name” stigma,  and also when I’d say my full name people would ask, “What’s the ‘K’ stand for?” “No, Cay C-A-Y.” They’d spell it K-A-Y and ask if it was my mother’s name. Eventually in frustration I just said “Ken.” That shut people up, but there are still records that name me Alan Kenneth Culler.

Later I decided that I liked my middle name and put it on business cards and bank accounts. Although, when someone I’ve just met calls me Alan Cay I say, “Just Alan is fine. The only people who call me Alan Cay are my family and you might want to think twice before joining that group.”

My last name, Culler, was always a bit of a problem for me. It is pronounced like color, and so I endured endless jokes. “Do you have a Culler TV at home?” When we were naming our children people would suggest ”Techni” or “Vista” or “Koda.” My eldest daughter should be grateful not to be named “Crystal Claire” or “Scarlet” after the famous Margaret Mitchell character.

My father always maintained that Culler, was an English name, a trade name for “:one who separates out,” a carver or one who culls the herds. My name Culler created some problems on some turnaround projects where people thought I would reduce the workforce. They mistakenly assumed it was my job not my name.

It turns out that my last name might have been changed from Kohler or Köller. Apparently my family moved from Catholic Maryland to English Central Pennsylvania because they were followers of John Calvin, Huguenots. In the United States, a country of immigrants, names were often changed, “anglicized” by insensitive immigration officials. Apparently, my father’s family just moved 12 miles and changed their name, hoping to “fit in.”

“Only thing about you that I’d change, I’d change your name.”**

These days it is harder to change your name. You have to change credit cards, Social Security, emails and social media accounts – a real nightmare. One of the times when people do change names is when getting a marriage license. It is no longer universal practice for one partner to take the other’s name. Some do; some keep their own names. Some couples create a new name for both.

When Billie and I got married more than twenty years ago she wanted to take my name, but keep her children’s last name as a middle name. A New York City marriage license clerk told her she had to hyphenate.

Billie hates her hyphen. “I have to spell every time I register for anything. Not that we’re going to have children, but what happens if someone with a hyphenated last name marries someone else with a hyphenated last name. Do they have four names and three hyphens? Whose hyphen is on top?”

Billie investigated removing her hyphen, but was told go to the “Court of the Self-Represented.”. “They didn’t even know where in City Hall the ‘Court of the Self-Represented’ was,” she fumed. “It’s right next to the “Ministry of Silly Walks,”  I quipped, (with apologies to Monty Python), but that didn’t help and she is still hyphen-afflicted.

“And I carry it with me like my daddy did”*

Names define our identity. Many surnames come directly from parentage, Johnson (John’s son), Neilson, or Johannsson. The Irish and Scots used Mc or Mac, McDonald, MacGregor, or O,  O’Reilly, O’Neil, to similarly delineate lineage. The Germans used Von, to determine person or place of origin  such as Von Braun or Von Munchausen.  Islamic and Hebrew cultures use Bin, Bin Salman Al-Saud, or Ben, Ben Gurion.

Some surnames are place names, Lake, Hill. London or Higginbottom. Surnames are often the name of the father. Some Latin cultures, like Mexico, include the mother’s family name as a middle name and leaving it off is disrespectful, the equivalent of telling “Yo mama” jokes during introductions.

Some African cultures place the clan name first. Some Asian cultures put the family name first as well. Most Americans, including me,  are clueless about international name traditions as when I called Vietnamese PhD, Tran Nguyen Dang, Dr. Dang instead of Dr. Tran.

“I woke up in a Soho doorway, a policeman knew my name”***

First names, given names, “Christian” names (for Christians) are individual; they are what new parents struggle with. Some name in honor of a friend or family member.

In Jewish tradition, you name a newborn for a recently diseased family member.

The early American Scot-Irish followed a rigid naming pattern:

• 1st son named for the father’s father
• 1^st daughter named for the mother’s mother
• 2^nd son named for the mother’s father
• 2^nd daughter for father’s mother
• 3^rd son named for the father
• 3^rd daughter named for the mother

This may make it easier for genealogists if there are clear middle names, and rigorous recordkeeping or not-so-much if not. Naming for previous ancestors leads to calling people “Junior” or “Trip.” It may also create a dislike for one’s name; my wife named for her father, is called Billie by everyone except the IRS.

Some try to use old family names, “Jeruthra” was my mother’s suggestion for my firstborn. Some come combine names, like Pamthia or Hughger. Some pick a name with the first initial of the honoree. Some utterly reject naming after anyone. “This kid’s gonna stand on his own, dammit.”

So naming a child is not easy, even if you do have nine months in which to do it.

“I’m gonna watch you shine, gonna watch you grow”****

Then for first children, you have to decide what you will be called.

Mom, Mum, Mummy, Mommy, Mama, Ma, Daddy, Dad, Dada, Da, Pa, Papa, Pop, Pap, Pappy. The list is not quite endless. The list for grandparents often depends on what parents are called, so Mommy’s mother might be Granmommie or Dad’s father might be Granddad. Or they might use names unused by parents . Dad’s father might be Pap. Then there are the family or culturally specific names, Nana, Bubbe, Abuela, Abuelo, Mee-maw, Babushka,

I am Pop to my kids, Grampa to my grandchildren. I chose those. If you let the parents choose you get some weird stuff, Gramma Care Bear and Gramma Share Bear.

It gets weirder if you let the kids choose, Binkie, Bip, Dooda, Loopa. I will never forget the absurdity of my forty-year-old friend calling his ninety-five-year-old grandfather. . . “Gangy.”

Two of my all-time favorite names are Grand-Mari, the name for my son-in-law’s mother Mari and Papa-grandé the name my friend Mico’s great granddaughter calls him.

Family nicknames are something else. They are often comments on the person. Names like “Moose”  and “Mouse” comment on size. I was called “Boy” for two years because, after two daughters, my parents couldn’t get over their surprise. After that I was called “Cookie Boy” because I never turned one down, still don’t. My mother called me “snickelfritzer,” which I miss now that she’s gone, but don’t need anyone else to pick up.

I often wonder; how did a nickname get its start? When I meet someone called “Skip,” was he or she a truant, someone who never walked anywhere, or a really smart kid who was promoted above grade level. Is “Trip” the third of his name, a clumsy oaf, or a prodigious partaker of psilocybin?

So names are important, even if naming is difficult. Names are an identifier, the start of an identity. Soon my son and daughter-in-law will pick a name for the new grandbaby, maybe with some input from big brother, and we can all say “Welcome to the world, ___________!” or snickelfritzer, snookums, or babycakes. Welcome!

* “I’ve Got a Name,” 1973 song by Jim Croce, Norman Gimbel, and Charles Fox

** “Change Your Name” 2018 Brett Young song

*** “Who are you?” 1964 song  by The Who written by Peter Townsend

**** “Father and Daughter” by Paul Simon 2002