What’s in a Name?

I went to school with a girl named Robin Hood. And I went to school with a girl named Crystal Ball. I also went to school with a girl named Robin Renn. There was Roberta Casserta and Gaetana Fontana. Sadistic parents? Hallucenogenic birthing drugs? Early sixties brain cell depletion? I don’t know but what they thought was cute resulted in what I like to think of as moniker massacre. At least these were all girls so, most likely, they only had to endure the taunting during the most vulnerable years of their lives. They probably ran to the first sociopaths they could find just so they could get married and relieve the humiliation.

Names still seem to be a great creative exercise for parents- to-be today but, thankfully, the double entendres of the past seem to have faded out of fashion. Now everyone just tries to outweird each other. Not surprisingly it’s most evident among celebrities. Picking out baby names is parallel to picking out Oscar gowns. They search high and low for the most unique, attention grabbing ones they can find. Do you think David Arquette might have been staring at the box of Cocoa Puffs in an early morning stupor when Courtney suddenly rushed over, snatched it out of his hands and exclaimed, “That’s it!!!”?

Was Gwyneth Paltrow serenely gazing across the Devonhamptchesterville fields, chewing on an apple when inspiration hit? And I don’t even have to ask about Tom Cruise. I can picture that one easily. He plowed through every piece of literature he could find until he hit pay dirt. I can see his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, intensity coursing through his veins as he paced. The victorious toothy grin when he got the by jove.

I wonder if Kate Hudson was strolling down Hollywood Boulevard when a yellow and black moving truck caught her eye. And, of course, we know John Travolta has a passion for airplanes so that one’s a no brainer.

Although quite different, at least these names aren’t completely ridiculous (except for Apple) like the ones conjured up by Frank Zappa–Dweezil, Moon Unit…and, blessedly, I forget the rest. I guess we all want to stand out. And no matter how selfless parenthood makes us feel and act, we inevitably see our children as extensions of ourselves. For this reason I always admire those who pick a solid, traditional, heritage or family inspired name. It just seems to say, “This is not about me.”

When it’s obvious the parents carefully and lovingly chose a timeless, strong  name it’s a gift to the child. It says, “This is who you are.” Not, “This is who we are.” 

I actually like to hear about names that are different. I love the name Tatum, like Tatum O’Neal. And Ernest Hemingway was married to a woman named Hadley. I like that too. Both could be family names. I don’t know. But the ones that scream a desperate need to be outrageously different just seem like pathetic baggage for children to bear.

Of course, it’s up to the parents. It’s their business ultimately. That being said, has the sentence been handed down yet to the parents of Pikabo Street? Okay, maybe that’s a heritage thing too. Native American maybe? If it’s just a different spelling of the child’s game, would someone please punish them severely?