BY ANY OTHER NAME

"Bob Marley isn't my name. I don't even know my name yet." Bob Marley

I have been thinking about names. Specifically, I have been thinking that it might be fun if a name given out at birth was temporary — kind of a “test” name that a person uses until a certain age (maybe 16), when they could then either opt to keep it or select a new one. I picked age 16 because that is when many people get their driver’s license, which becomes a principal means of identification. It seems like a good opportunity to pick a new name.

Although some names are timeless, like Peter, Charles and Daniel, or Emma, Caroline and Elizabeth, trends change over time in just about everything, even names. What might have been a popular name when you were born, could become very old-fashioned as you age - think of Gertrude, Mable or Edith and Felix, Cecil or Oscar. I don’t see many of those running around these days.

Also, it seems as though some people never quite “grow into” their name. Take, for instance, a name like Bartholomew. That is a big handle for a tiny baby and, unless shortened to Bart, could be hard for a kid to grow up with, not only socially, but imagine trying to fit all those letters into all the little boxes on all the many forms one has to fill-out in life.

Anyway, I have been thinking about names. Today’s poem is a bit about that.

BY ANY OTHER NAME

Choosing a child’s name.
Can you have a greater responsibility?
That kid is going to be labeled by you
f-o-r-e-v-e-r.

Most parents-to-be agonize over this decision.
Some study dozens of baby books
with thousands of offerings ranging from Aaron to Zeke;
some pick a name du jour filling future classrooms
with Ashleys, Taylors, and Joshuas.
Some go frightfully original, or awkwardly awry ~
like naming siblings Brook and Lake Trout, or a daughter Tina Ling.

My parents went the easy way.
I became Susan after my father’s mother.
She died long before I was born and this was an homage to her,
not custom-fit for me, and it never felt quite right;
like that one pair of shoes everybody owns that looks terrific,
but kills your feet after an hour or so.

Susan is not a bad name; it means lily flower,
but in my head it’s stodgy and old-fashioned;
so, just like I ditched mini-skirts, go-go boots,
and Farah Fawcett hair when they became passé,
a decade ago I decided to ditch Susan for Suzanne.

Suzanne means graceful lily,
and isn’t really all that different,
but to me the “zanne” adds a zap,
a bit of tiger-lily pizzazz.