When William Shakespeare said in “Romeo and Juliet” (Act II, Scene II), “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” I don’t think he thought it through. Let me give you a personal example about the power of names.
It was early September 1964, and I was headed south on Highway 49, about Mendenhall, with the top down on my red Triumph TR4 convertible. I was going home from college for the weekend, and I had just completed one of the most bone-headed, ill-advised car trades in my long history of such transactions – my cool, low milage, paid-for 1963 Chevy II Nova coupe for the beat up, used up Triumph with a long note to tote.
But, you know, I didn’t care. I remember thinking to myself, so long ago, as I topped a big hill, with the wind blowing through my hair, the engine howling, feeling every crease in the concrete, and the loose steering drifting off toward the centerline: “No matter what happens, I will always remember this ‘feeling,’ this moment: This is what it means to be free!”
I had been tied down the previous summer, working as a drill instructor in a very intense environment at a Naval Reserve boot camp in Charleston, South Carolina. Before that, I had been at sea for five years. I was also experiencing some stress in my personal life but, to this day, whenever I hear the word, “Mendenhall,” I remember how wonderful I felt, and I relive that epiphany experience.
Psychologists call it “auditory cue-dependent memory” or audio priming, when hearing a name takes you back to a significant experience long ago. It’s a three-step process. First comes association. We hear a name, and the brain naturally links (associates) concepts and experiences together. Then comes “priming,” as in your grandfather’s outdoor water pump. A stimulus (the word) makes certain ideas and memories more accessible – your brain has been “warmed up.” Last is the cue-dependent memory. It can be auditory, as described above, or it can be triggered by any of the five senses: hearing, sight, smell, taste, and touch. As most graduates of Psychology 101 will recognize, these concepts are closely related to classical conditioning, where a stimulus (Like a bell in Pavlov’s experiments) can trigger automatic associations.
At the most basic level, names serve a practical purpose. They help us tell people apart, but they are also tied to our sense of self. Your name can shape how others view you and how you view yourself. I’ve always felt strongly that parents should think long and hard before putting their baby’s name on the birth certificate. As a longtime schoolteacher, I can cite many instances of when a child was ridiculed because their name was perceived by their classmates to be unique, “different” or out of the norm. I was always quick to shut down such chatter, but the damage was already done.
In English and literature classes, I would point out the obvious – that in fiction, names often carry symbolic weight, specifically chosen by the author to represent certain themes or characteristics. For example, in J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, the name, “Voldemort,” comes from the French meaning “flight of death,” consistent with his fearsome personality – “He who will not be named.” In Homer’s “Odyssey,” the hero’s name refers to pain and trouble, consistent with his struggle to return home to Ithica after the Trojan War.
Psychologists also tell us that the name we love to hear the most is our own. After that, it’s the name of the person we love the dearest. When I was on active duty in the Navy as a chaplain, I delivered hundreds of death notices; that is to say, I had to tell hundreds of military personnel that someone close to them, some of their next of kin, had passed away. Often, the death was because of a tragic accident or a crime. Sometimes the news was so bad that I cried when I received it and then cried with them after I notified them. Everyone reacts to death differently (I have been physically attacked more than once), but I soon noticed a common pattern. The sailors and Marines usually seemed to know intuitively that I was the bearer of really bad news, and often before I could say anything, they would say, “It’s not my wife, is it?” Or, “It’s not my child, or my mother, is it.” They would involuntarily think of the name of the person that they loved the most.
Names are among the first gifts we receive; although, I once asked my mother why she perpetuated the name, “Benny,” in our family. It always struck me as a strange choice. I knew it was the diminutive of the Biblical word, Benjamin, which means “Son of the right hand,” but I would have preferred a name more common among my schoolmates. It wasn’t until I got to the Philippines that I found a culture where the name was very common if not popular. According to the Social Security Administration, of the approximately 69 million citizens who receive a check each month, less than 31,000 of us are named “Benny.”
The point is that we should never discount the power of words, and specifically, of names. I’ve been on more than one ship where sailors asked me to help them legally change their name. I managed to discourage most of them; however, one failure that I remember was a young man whose surname was “Gross.” While I told him to focus on some of the word’s positive meanings (The total amount of money before deductions, largeness or overall total, visible to the naked eye, etc.) rather than denotations like flagrant, crude, or unattractive, he chose to change it, anyway.
There are times, however, when name changes are controversial, for example, Gulf of America versus Gulf of Mexico or Department of War instead of Defense Department. Such political maneuvering reminds me of the old Biblical expression, “bearding the lion,” where in 1 Samuel 17:36, King David speaks of seizing a lion by its beard. Over the years, this expression has carried over into English idiom where it symbolizes boldness and even a willingness to disrupt.
A few American companies have also learned that it can be dangerous to translate some well-known brand names and slogans literally into foreign languages. General Motors is a case in point. Back in the 1960s, they had a hard time selling Chevrolet Novas in Latin American countries (Although I had bought one in Mississippi) because “no va” in Spanish means “doesn’t go.” Would you buy a car that wouldn’t go? Pepsi also had problems of its own in Asia. When I was in Thailand, I was told that the advertising slogan, “Come alive, You are in the Pepsi Generation,” means “Pepsi brings your ancestors back from the dead” in some of the indigenous languages. I don’t know if that’s true, but you get the point. Names are important.
I’ve noticed that suggestions have even been made to change the current names of some active-duty Navy ships. Personally, I would tread lightly here. Politicians can name ships whatever they want, but sailors will always rename them to suit the ship’s personality. For example, I served in (You are always “in” a ship, and not “on” it; and it’s always a “ship” and never a “boat,” unless it’s a submarine.) the USS Herbert R. Carcaterra (DER-390), a radar picket ship out of Newport, Rhode Island. Private Calcaterra, a Medal of Honor winner, was a brave U.S. Marine who died heroically in World War II, but his namesake ship was a nightmare -worn out, rusty, smelly, and cold. In three years, I never heard anyone call it anything but the “Dirty Herbie.” On the other hand, I spent three years in the Battleship New Jersey (BB-62) out of Long Beach, California. That ship put out some positive energy. If you had been onboard more than a week, you called it the “Big J,” and you loved it. Speaking of Long Beach, I also spent three years in the USS Long Beach (CGN-9), the Navy’s first nuclear-powered cruiser. I slept one deck over the after nuclear reactor. My dosemeter was always over the limit of radiation exposure at the weekly reading, and that’s one reason why my wife says I glow in the dark.
Personally, I’ve always thought that a great ship’s name would be “Penelope,” who, of course, was the long-suffering but ever-faithful wife of Odysseus, the sea-going hero of Homer’s epic poem, “The Odyssey.” But, in my opinion, the British have always had the corner on great ship names. In various ports around the world, I’ve seen HMS (Her Majesty’s Ship) Hotspur (Remember your Shakespeare?), Daffodil, and Revenge. When I was seventeen, and serving in USS Springfield (CLG-7), a guided missile cruiser homeported in Nice, France, I remember visiting Valletta, Malta, where we tied up alongside HMS Battleaxe, a name to remember.
Any discussion of names must include insight into how some of us got our surname or family name in the first place. It goes back to the evolution of occupational surnames in medieval Europe. Before the 11th century, most used only a single given name. As populations expanded, however, there was an obvious need for a way to distinguish between individuals. By the 12th century, surnames tied to occupations began to emerge. At first, occupational names were literal descriptors (Smith, for blacksmith; Baker for baker; Miller for the grain grinder; Tailor for the clothes maker; Cooper for the barrel maker; Fletcher for the arrow maker; Chandler for the candle maker, etc.). The naming process over time was something like this: a man named John who worked as a carpenter might be called “John the Carpenter.” His son might have a different occupation and a different surname. Gradually, surnames became hereditary, and “John the Smith,” became “John Smith,” and his son, John, a shepherd, remained a “Smith.” One day, in the distant future, a writer will struggle to explain the history of hyphenated last names, which really isn’t a new phenomenon.
I’ve always been interested in Mississippi towns named after institutions or concepts, and Highway 49 between here and Jackson offers two great examples: Sanatorium and Seminary. Sanatorium, in Simpson County, just north of Magee, was named after the Mississippi State Tuberculosis (TB) Sanatorium, which operated from 1918 until 1976. At its peak in the 1940s, it housed over 450 patients. There is a great museum there today, located in what was once the Administration Building.
Seminary, just up the road, is named after the historic Mount Zion Seminary which opened in 1846. A coed institution, operated by the Presbyterian Church, it offered advanced courses in law, medicine, and religious studies. It was destroyed by fire during the Civil War, supposedly by Union sympathizers, and never regained its former strength. Closing for good in 1890, the old seminary grounds are the site of the present Seminary Attendance Center.
It’s amazing what comes to mind when you mention a name. It can either pump you up or break your heart. Yesterday was my birthday, and when you are my age, with as many miles as I’ve accumulated, and as many sights as I have seen, you must face the truth when the truth comes to call. The “gonzo” writer, Hunter S. Thompson, said that “The only people who know about the edge are those who have gone over it.” I’m afraid that I know. Perhaps that’s why this poem by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865) has always resonated with me:
A NAME IN THE SAND (1841)
Alone I walked the ocean strand,
A pearly shell was in my hand,
I stooped and wrote upon the sand
My name, the year, the day.
As onward from the spot I passed,
One lingering look behind I cast:
A wave came rolling high and fast,
And washed my lines away.
Light a candle for me.
