Philosophy of Nomenclature

Names have always fascinated me.

I think of playing Rumpelstiltskin in a play as a child—why I had the privilege of playing that character, I do not recall, as getting angry is not my forte—and how important is the guessing of his name.  Years later I played a sort of Rumpelstiltskin character again as myself when asked my middle name, although without the anger when they guessed it at last.

I think of reading Pippi Longstocking and rejoicing in the delightful ridiculous of her full name of "Pippilotta Delicatessa Mackrelmint Ephraim's daughter Longstocking."  Fairly recently, I realized that I learned many other things from her as well—my love for idyllic pirates for one—but I digress.

I think of playing the part of Chang in a Chinese tale where I had to repeat the name of my brother, Tikki Tikki Tembo No Sa Rembo Chari Bari Ruchi Pip Berri Pembo, many times breathlessly to the Old Man with the Ladder so that he should bring his ladder and pull my brother out lest he be drowned in the well.  You try saying Tikki Tikki Tembo No Sa Rembo Chari Bari Ruchi Pip Berri Pembo quickly after running hard for a long time and see how successful you are at pronouncing it clearly.  The moral of that story was that the Chinese would never give their first important children long names anymore, as Tikki Tikki Tembo No Sa Rembo Chari Bari Ruchi Pip Berri Pembo was nearly drowned by the time he was pulled out on account of his long name.

Names have such power.  Many writers of fantasy tales (LeGuin for instance) use names as ways for obtaining power over something or someone, following the tradition of ancient cultures.  Parents today warn their children against telling strangers their names for the same reason, so it is not only fantasy where this idea holds true.

Yet nicknames have an even greater power, I would argue.  After all, what is so powerful about a handle that you pass out willy-nilly to the government or grocer, social media application or bus driver, or any other person you might happen to meet?  Thousands of people know your name or at least have access to knowing your name.  Although there is some power in their knowing it, the broad use of your given name also weakens that power.

Nicknames, on the other hand, by right belong to a more select group, perhaps even in some cases only to a single person.  Thus they have much greater power.

Now when I say power, you may conjure up visions of Hitler and Stalin and the worst dictators you have ever heard of and find my notion of names giving power a frightening concept, but that is not quite what I mean.  What I mean might more easily be illustrated by thinking of 24601.  When you refer to a person by a number such as that rather than his rightful name (Jean Valjean), you put yourself in power over him—you try to control him—you dehumanize him—but ultimately the effect is much less powerful.  When Inspector Javert calls him 24601, Jean Valjean wants only to flee his tyranny.  However, his encounter with Monseigneur Myriel has great power.  The monseigneur might have called Valjean by his Christian name, Jean, which would have lifted him up—humanized him—but instead he refers to him by a sort of nickname.  He calls him my brother and challenges him to live an honest life.  Now you may argue that "my brother" is not a nickname, but I would respond that it functions as one and therefore illustrates my point that a nickname has greater power even than one's given name.

Why do I say greater power?  Well simply because rather than call him by the moniker given to him at birth by his family, the nickname indicates seeing him more deeply, more humanly.  If I call someone by a nickname, I am not merely treating him as any other person in the world—or any other object in the world—by calling him the name I have been taught to call him.  Instead I am saying I see you as more than that.  I see you for who you are.

Now that is a frightening concept.  That is why we cannot stand to stare into each other's eyes for more than a couple of seconds without growing uncomfortable.  (Unless we are about to kiss or kill someone, as my professors of theatre instilled in my mind with frequent repetition....)

There is a reason public speaking is people's number one fear.  It is because we are afraid of being seen.  It may be that we are afraid of looking silly or of making a mistake in front of others, but it goes more deeply than that: we are afraid that we shall be seen for who we are and that it will not be who we want to be.

Nicknames are not nearly as frightening as staring people straight in the eyes.  They are a less demanding way of saying what we want desperately to hear: "I see you as you are and I love you for it and don't think any less of you for all your oddities.  You're dear to me and I care about you enough to have a special name for you.  I want to tell you this every time I say your name."  Or something to that effect.  Granted, we do not think this consciously every single time we use someone's nickname, but I hope you understand my meaning.

Sometimes a nickname may even say more than that.  (As if that was not enough, eh?)

Would you believe that a nickname might have the power to encourage you to rise higher, to become more than you think you can be, and to leap out in faith?  That may sound a bit too much to believe.  (Although the Monseigneur Myriel example illustrates a quite similar idea.)  However, I know a certain person who has a habit of nicknaming friends after saints.  Now when you nickname someone after a saint, not only does it say all of the above, but it also binds that saint in a sort of bond of loyalty, one might say—although that is quite a backwards way of expressing it, as usually the saint initiates the bond through various seeming coincidences....  It happens, I promise you.

In any case, it is a connection beyond oneself.  It says not only that those for whom you are nicknamed are amazing role models and patrons for you, but also that you are called to follow the path they have already trod, imitating their virtues in your own unique fashion.

Yes, I believe in the power of names.  I do believe that people tend to take on characteristics of their namesakes.  Furthermore, I am certain that psychological research substantiates my claims.  Without resorting to such proofs, however, I will leave it to your good faith to believe me—if not to believe that I speak the truth, at least to believe that I believe it is the truth.  (I am rather modest in my requests, I know; I do not like to infringe too much upon my readers' opinions and existing perspectives.)

There is quite good precedence for this claim actually.  When people immigrate, they often take—or are forced to take—a new name, which indicates beginning a new life.  For a similar reason, religious take new names upon their profession of vows.  Also, there are a few certain characters in the Old Testament whose names God changed to signify that they were taking a new direction in their lives: Abram to Abraham and Jacob to Israel just to mention two of the most obvious.

Writers have to be particularly careful of names.  For instance choosing to name a character Fred Smith will determine an entirely different background, occupation, social circle, and so on than a more exotic choice such as Ebenezer Athanasius Christopher.  I tend to hesitate long over name choices for characters for that very reason.

Take the name of this blog for instance.  I might have called it by a hundred different titles, but my definite choice has determined its direction in a very real sense.  Now some of you might miss the nautical connection—which granted I do myself and since I am no longer a captain without a ship (more on that another time) I hope to return some nautical flair—but frankly it serves as a suitable substitution (I do love alliteration!) for a collection of random items.

The inspiration for this blog title (for those of you who have not the privilege to know) comes from a favorite saying of Captain Nancy Blackett (whose actual name was Ruth, but an Amazon pirate had to be ruth-less) of the good ship Amazon from a lovely series of books known as Swallows and Amazons where she used it quite frequently as an expression of surprise.  Hence there may be an element of surprise suggested here too; after all, you never know what subject may next grace these pixels communicated from me to you.

So there you have it, it being my nomenclatural philosophy expounded in many words. If you have read thus far, I congratulate you.  Either you have more time than I, or you appreciate what I say to a rare degree that is nigh incredible.  But enough of self-deprecatory humor....

Thank you, dear readers, dear friends, dear fellow pilgrims and seekers (and now you know how carefully I choose these titles, these names that signify your relation to me as a group, which—although not as personal as nicknames or even given names—still indicate connection and a sort of power.  Reference that Monseigneur Myriel tale if you question this truth.)

Power.  We return to the word at last.  I hesitate still to use it because it carries with it so many negative connotations, but still it holds truth.  For there is a great power in saying, "I know you.  I see you for who you are.  How wonderful it is that you exist!  How shiny that you exist exactly as you are!"  It is a power—I hope—that encourages you, empowers you, and lifts you up to the heavens with the last few notes of a song that the Poet always seeks to discover.

That power is stronger than control, which binds and weakens.  It is rather the power of vulnerability: the power of opening myself to reach out to you and say that I am at your service—or perhaps, if I may, "As you wish...."