(~9 minutes to read)
What’s the most stressful aspect of parenthood? Forget the terrible twos, the teenage sullenness and the fake-ID-facilitated drinking binge. Giving a name to the bundle of joy that will inflict those trials and tribulations upon you is infinitely more trying.
And for the crime of poor name-choosing, many parents should be tried, found guilty, and sentenced to eighteen years of community service spent collecting the correct spelling of names of gymnasts, soccer players, baseball players, dancers, budding musicians, and baton twirlers for their coaches and teachers.
Let me explain.
Actually, let me rant.
I grew up in East London in the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, where names such as David, Susan, Edward, Robert, Linda and Gary were the norm. There were a few “exotic” names in my school, such as Josephine, Yvonne and Glenda, and with the transition to a multi-ethnic population, names such as Kamla and Gobind were not unknown, but my friends were mostly Toms, Davids, Richards, Pauls, Raymonds, and Stephens (or Stevens).
Fast forward to 2016. It’s no longer a world of Davids, Sarahs, Toms, Dicks and Harriets. It’s a nightmarish hell of Murssaydeezes, Anavrins, Dayvidds, Jawjes and M’uhs.
And if naming your child by eating alphabetti spaghetti and reading the ensuing stool isn’t bad enough, how about highly individual names such as these: “Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii” (that unfortunate was made a ward of court so that her name—it’s a girl’s name—could be changed), “Post Office”, and “Number 16 Bus Stop”. I’ve read that that last name was inspired by the locale of conception, but haven’t found an authoritative source.
For generations, entertainment has been the inspiration for many a name, from Tyrone to Elvis to Clark to Hermione. I have a Tom and a Jerry in my circle of friends and relatives. I’m sure there are many Rachels, Chandlers and Phoebes out there who are in their late teens or early twenties. Fortunately, most (if not all) parents in the 1990s showed at least a little class: I derive comfort from the fact that I’ve not come across anyone named Tinky WInky, Dipsy, Laa-Laa or Po, but that’s not to say that some parent out there who grew up with Teletubbies didn’t do the deed.
However, some parents are now being inspired by Pokemon Go when naming their newborn. “Eevee” and “Tauros” might be acceptable (although a little “Oddish”), and “Raichu”, “Nidorino” and “Ponyta” sound a little “Farfetch’d”, but “Bulbasaur”, “Electabuzz”, and “Psyduck” seem to be up there with “Cholera Plague”, “Comma” and “Vagina”, all of which, according to this BBC news article are real names given by parents to their progeny.
In search of subjects to use for historical comparison, I came up with Pac-Man. That game was huge in the 1980s, and I wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised if Namco is working on an augmented reality version of the game. But although it’s arguably one of the most famous and successful video games of all time, I have yet to meet any Generation-Xers or Millennials named Blinky, Pinky, or Inky on their birth certificates (I may have met a “Clyde” at some time…)
The thing is though; it’s the Gen-Xers and Millennials that are naming their kids Pikachu, Snorlax and Cloyster. Such people should imagine their lives had they been named Blinky or Pinky, and then go back to the registrar and re-name their babies Bill or George—anything but Pikachu!
I’m sure my friends had mums who lusted after the likes of Gary Cooper, Robert Redford and David Niven, but the thing is, the actors’ parents chose names that were already well-known; the silver screen heart throbs were just catalysts for the re-popularizing of their names. In contrast, Pokemon names sound entirely made up.
Traditional names are in many cases, derived from personal attributes. “Reginald” is Germanic and comprises the notions of advice and rule. “Kelvin” means “narrow water”, which is perhaps why it’s a little-used first name. (The River Kelvin, by the way, flows into the Clyde, the name of one of the aforementioned Pac-Man characters.)
“David” means “beloved”. “Dayvidd” on the other hand means “I’ve got dipsticks for parents.”
“George” means “farmer” or “earthworker”. “Jawj” means “my parents thought it’d be funny to make me spend my entire life spelling my name out to anyone that tries to write it down.
“Emma” means “whole” or “universal”. “M’uh” means “my parents don’t have a whole brain between them.”
Here’s a story for anyone contemplating giving their soon-to-arrive son or daughter a youneack spelling of a name or a pop-culture-inspired moniker. It’s set in the year 2022, when all the Pokemon kids have started school.
(BTW: I try to write for both Canadian and British audiences, but to translate everything would be clumsy, so… Brits—students are pupils, principals are head teachers, kindergarten (“K”) is reception, grade 1 is year 1, and grade 12 is year 12.)
The entire school—350 students and teachers—was assembled in the gym. At the front, the K-kids were sitting cross-legged, with each succeeding grade sitting behind; the grade 12s were on chairs near the back.
Blinky Jones, the Vice Principal, stood and called for silence. He then yielded the floor to Tabitha O’hara, the school’s forty-something-year-old Principal.
“Thank you, Blinky. Good morning, school! Welcome back; I hope you all had a magical summer. This year, we thought it would be a good idea to introduce our teachers to the whole school rather than students learning who each teacher is in an ad hoc fashion. Each class has a home teacher, and I’ve assigned individual students to introduce their home room teacher to the entire school. But I’ll start the ball rolling by introducing our new kindergarten teacher, Phoebe Mahilchuk.”
Phoebe stood up, and moved next to Tabitha.
“Good morning everybody, and especially the little ones in the front!” said Phoebe. “Boy, am I nervous! So… this is my first teaching position, and I’m looking forward to making friends with all you little ones! I’m trying to learn your names, aren’t I, Dewgong,” she said, making eye contact with a kindergartener of indeterminate gender at the end of the front row.
The eye contact had the desired effect, but the owner of the eyes was not happy. “Please miss, I’m Goldeen. Dewgong’s the boy with those funny turtle things on his shirt,” said Goldeen.
“Oh no,” said Ms. Mahilchuk. “I’m sorry. Anyhow—Goldeen, Dewgong, Jazzminn with two “n”s, Jazzminnn with three “n”s, Jazzzmynn with three “z”s, and all the rest of you, I just want you to know that I’ll be there for you.”
“When the rain starts to fall?” called out a grade 12 at the back. Several of the younger teachers smiled.
“Thank you, Ms. Mahilchuk,” said Ms. O’hara. I’d like Behind The Bike Shed Hawkmead to come up and introduce our Grade one teacher.”
A seven-year-old girl wearing a U2 “Joshua Tree” tour tee shirt came to the front.
“Our home room teacher is nice. He’s been at this school longer than anyone except Ms. O’hara, and as well as being our home room teacher, he teaches Religion. His name is Damien Thorson“.
A square-shaped man of about forty stepped up to the front, kneeled down, and shook Behind the Bike Shed’s hand. “Thank you, uhm… Behind?”
“My dad doesn’t allow people to shorten my name, Mr. Thorson.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Damien, laughing nervously. “As Behind The Bike Shed said, I’ve been at Sacred Spleen a long time; sometimes it seems I’ve been here from the dawn of time itself. In those years I’ve have had the pleasure of teaching most of you at some time. I’ve taught all the Hawkmeads—Under The Overpass, In The Men’s Washrooms, and Up The Top Of The Cell Tower; and now I have Behind The Bike Shed to complete the set! As you know, I teach Religion, so if you have any crises of faith, or any questions about the current interfaith struggles in the world, just come and see me. You know who I am and where to find me.”
“Thank you, Damien, and thank you Behind The Bike Shed,” said Tabitha as Damien returned to his place. “Next we’ll have Gru Bannerman to introduce our Grade two teacher, Donatello Arkwright.”
The introductions continued through the grades, with a student introducing each teacher. The process finally reached the back of the gym.
“And last, but not least, I’d like to call upon Soobroo Tork to introduce our grade twelve home room teacher.”
One of the grade twelves shouted, “Sorry Ms. O’hara, she’s out back, locking her car… oh… she’s here.”
There was a very brief pause while Soobroo motored to the front. Tabitha O’hara, not one for being held up, twitched her nose in disapproval. Soobroo took a breath and spoke.
“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, it’s my distinct pleasure to introduce our new Grade twelve home room teacher. He comes to us all the way from Saint Kylie of the Swamps Collegiate where he taught math for two years. Our previous math teacher, Dipsy Mickleover, is on maternity leave, but we’re sure that her replacement will be just as big an asset to our school as Ms. Mickleover was. I give you Mr. Tinky Winky deGroot.”
Soobroo backed away and stood in the background as a rather rotund man in his mid-twenties arrived at the speaking position.
“Ay-o everybody,” said deGroot. “I’m over the moon to be part of Sacred Spleen! I’ll be teaching math to grades ten, eleven and twelve, and also be offering New Media classes as an intramural. I’ve already found some volunteers to help me with the intramural and would like to recognize them. Ennis, Veruca, and Donkey, please stand up.” They did so. “Big hugs to you. School, please thank them with me.”
The assembled masses clapped politely.
“If you have any questions about math or new media, you’ll usually find me in the superdome, also known as room 27.”
Tinky Winky deGroot nodded his thanks, and started the walk to the back of the gym. Ms. O’Hara looked out over the sea of students.
“I hope you found these introductions useful and informative. You should now know where each teacher will be, which grade they are homeroom teacher to, and which room they will be teaching in. Finally, please will the following students see me after we dismiss. Maffeugh Wigstaff, Dann-yill Schmidt, Adnoh and Atoyot Glich, and Kermit Green. Now, school dismiss, and have a great year!”
Cheesy? You bet. But as the predilection for choosing babies’ names from popular culture or alphabet poop gains ground, situations like the above, but with yet-to-become-fashionable memes, will become commonplace. And unless you’re planning to name your yet-to-be-born son Donnulde or Dunuld, that should be a scenario that disturbs you.
There is light on the horizon though. The problem of having to ask people how they spell their names will go away once we’re all barcoded or have chips implanted. And then we will all truly be the individuals that our parents want us to be.