In Praise of the Value of Names

A while ago, my nine-year-old grandson encountered a playground bully. Whenever the small-time ruffian came near, he called my boy something foul, transforming the sound of his name. My grandson was at a loss. He isn’t a born fighter and knows that starting a battle is off-limits. So he has been taught, so he believes.

A few days later, the tormenter-in-training did the same thing, laughing along the way. However, this time, one of my grandchild’s friends overheard it. He stood up to the neighborhood tough guy and asked why he was making fun of his classmate. No explanation followed. The big fellow acquiesced when the buddy told him to stop.

This is an oft-told tale. Thus goes many a boy’s life, but there is a twist. My grandson wrote a paper about it to complete a school assignment. The story ended by saying that he hoped he would act as his friend did if he ever encountered a bully taking advantage of someone else.

As you can imagine, I am proud of my sweet, thoughtful, and decent grandchild for a thousand things, including this statement.

Think about names. Who owns them? I’d like to believe they are the property of the one who has been named. First names are given by parents and therefore called “given names.” The last name or family name comes after the given one.

Sir, an English designation of respect, derives from the word Sire. One’s Sire was his King, but more often a feudal lord: a noble who held land and gave his vassal a portion in return for his service.

The sirs and the sires go way back. Knights were called sir as long ago as 1297. So far back, it was before I was born. I think.

These days, at least in the United States, we have left such respectful forms of address in the trash heap. Upon meeting a new person or receiving a call from a business or charity, it is no surprise if they address you by your first name from the get-go. May I speak with Estelle?

Estelle and the rest of us would do well to correct the speaker, though I must admit I rarely do so myself.

Gone are the days when sir or madam were automatically expected and used in making contact with an adult. Gone are Mr. or Ms. or Mrs. or Miss. Respect has fallen without a fight. Casualness and presumption have taken its place.

The one who calls you by your first name or your nickname now becomes the partial owner of the word: your designation. No matter your age, your level of education, or how you wish to be addressed, you are assigned the word preferred by someone else.

Name callers.

The other doesn’t know you, might be a teen, and may even be unaware that he is being disrespectful.

Other than the President of the United States, no one can be certain what he will be called when someone speaks to him. Perhaps clergy members receive the courtesy of being designated by their position if they wear clerical garb.

Many believe living in an informal, classless society is better than a formal one. Inequalities manifest themselves nonetheless. Civility—formal politeness, courtesy, and consideration in the routine of daily life—has eroded. 

Chief Executives dismiss their lower-level associates with computerized form letters announcing the end of their employment. Some heads of state refer to disfavored minorities as trash, rapists, and thieves, stereotyping a race or a place of origin. Remember the phrase “shithole countries?” That ugly expression was applied to a continent.

History tells us that numbers can replace names. Tattooed numbers.

Respect for another is too often a one-way street, where one’s boss is treated with high regard, but workers are unseen, exchangeable, replaceable, and perhaps pushed aside by artificial intelligence. They are thus objectified, a matter of dollars and cents. Too expensive, too old, and disposable. 

On a recent appointment with a talented dentist, I heard him refer to his female employees as “the girls.” Two of the women were past 60, while he was under 40. 

Even name-tagged checkers and cashiers usually find their names ignored. How do I know? I’ve asked them.

Watch out when you lose control of your name, title, or whatever you prefer to be called. Watch out when you are not called sir, madam, Mr., Ms., or Mrs. Watch out when you are not called coach, lieutenant, doctor, officer, mother, or father.

Show respect if you wish to live in a respectful world and enlarge yourself thereby. Hold your head high. Respect may yet return.

Today’s bullies have not grown beyond their playground days. They betray their cowardice and extend their reach by wearing the darkness of the internet.

To the good, the sacred stands opposite the profane. Even my nine-year-old grandchild knows there are things more important in life than Christmas toys, money, and might over right.

My boy would tell you that he hopes to grow up and defend people who can’t protect themselves.

Martin Luther King would smile.

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The two Paul Klee paintings are sourced from Wikiart.org. The first is New Angel, from 1920, and the second is Black Knight, from 1937.

Ricketts or Rickets? “What’s in a Name?”

When I heard that the Ricketts family had purchased the Cubs, I immediately began to worry. Rickets (note that the name has only one “t,” unlike that of the Ricketts family) is, after all, a childhood vitamin deficiency disease, typically caused by a lack of vitamin D. The bones, as a result, are softened and malformed. Just what we need on the Cubs, I thought.

Names. The value of names. That is really what I’m talking about. (More about the Cubs later in this essay). Early in their life in school, kids find out that names can be a problem. Kids will rhyme and twist names to make you wish you didn’t have one or could crawl under a rock. I remember a girl called Leslie who was the only female in my high school physics class. The class wit called her “Lester” and the over-matched teacher didn’t rein him in. Doubtless, Leslie felt miserable.

Someone I know has a nephew with the initials “F.U.” What were the parents thinking? In fact, it was pointed out to them, very early, that the name they had in mind would, because of these initials, cause the child endless grief. Did they care? Apparently not. Some parents will argue that they do this to “toughen-up” their little guys. I doubt it.

Most of us are sensitive about our names. We want them said correctly and written correctly. They are us, in effect. I’ve been corrected properly when I called a woman “Judy” whose name was Judith. We want to be noted and respected. We don’t want our names besmirched, mutilated, or forgotten. When speakers thank others in public, they often take pains to list everyone who deserves some credit. They do this with good reason. We want to be thought of fondly and well.

Witness Shakespeare’s Henry V motivating his men on the eve of the Battle of Agincourt, which was to occur on St. Crispin’s Day:

“…He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d…”

Of course, being “named,” isn’t always a good thing. Being named in an indictment, for example; or, during the infamous days of Senator Joe McCarthy in the 1950s, having your name uttered by a witness as a possible Communist. The hearings in question concerned alleged Communist infiltration of the Federal Government and the entertainment industry. These could result in the subpoena of the named-individual to testify before the same congressional committee, not to mention the possibility of being fired from his job and being blackballed from making a living. Unless, of course, he too would be willing to go before the committee and “name names,” thus betraying people he knew and even, sometimes, people he was close to.

Back to the Cubs, we are told that there is little possibility that “naming rights” to Wrigley Field will be sold. If that were to happen, however, the fans of the Cubs would have their attachment to a name sorely tested. But, of course, one can only hope that the “Ricketts era” will bring the World Series that we have all been waiting for, and that many have died waiting for after leading long lives that began in late 1908 or later, and ended anytime since. And we’ve heard other, older names carrying the same promise: the infamous “College of Coaches” that was supposed to transform the Cubs in the early 1960s, the hiring of Leo Durocher to manage the 1966 team that finished in 10th place, the purchase of the Cubs by the Tribune Company and the installation of Dallas Green (named General Manager) to produce a retooling that would lead to the World Series; and, who can forget how Dusty Baker was touted as a savior a few years ago, only to be replaced by the naming of Lou Pinella, savior next-in-line, to replace Dusty in the dugout.

Will the Ricketts name be worth the paper it is written on? Will it be a better name than Chicago Tribune? Shakespeare gives us a hint, in the form of Juliet’s words to Romeo, who, after all, has a last name detested by her family, and visa versa:

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.”

So, it would appear that the real question is whether the “Ricketts Era” Cubs will pass the smell test.

Shakespeare knew everything.