Shakespeare places the ostensibly trivial but ultimately profound question “What’s in a name?” in the mouth of Juliet, who ponders it in a soliloquy that Romeo overhears. Unaware that her beloved is listening, the female character continues speaking and reveals a line of reasoning that seems unassailable, not only to her but also to many of Shakespeare’s readers.
She famously argues, “That which we call a rose / By any other name would smell as sweet.” Juliet here implies that names ultimately are irrelevant, a mere convention; what matters is the object named — logically positing that things exist apart from the names we ascribe to them.
A philosopher of Juliet’s persuasion would argue that whether we call a bound volume “a book,” “un libro,” “ein Buch” or “Yī běnshū,” it remains the same res, the Latin term for an inanimate object or thing.
While I agree that an object’s shape, size, smell, taste and texture generally exist independently from the name or names by which it is called in various languages, I disagree that names, especially when applied to people, are irrelevant. On the contrary, I believe that names when they relate to persons, living or dead, are far more impactful than we often acknowledge.
What parents name a child can have a lasting effect, whether for good or ill, for the remainder of the child’s life. The reason for this enduring impact relates to how people associate certain names, for better or for worse, with certain characteristics. Allow me to explain.
Like Juliet, classical authors distinguished between res and verba, which is to say between “things” and the “words” used to describe those things. At the same time, in a phrase attributed to the playwright Plautus, many anciently held that “nomen est omen”: which is to say, a name instinctively contains a sign pointing to a reality that lies behind the name. For this reason, fathers and mothers in Hispanic cultures regularly assign “Jesús” or “Maria” to their newborns in the hope that the babies will grow up to be moral and great like Jesus and his mother.
In the Middle Ages, the Italian poet Dante Alighieri adopted this view, which he described in another Latin phrase, “Nomina sunt consequentia rerum”: literally, “names are the consequences of things.” The poet believed that one’s name could foretell one’s attributes. He believed that his beloved Beatrice conferred beatitude in part because her name implied “one who blesses.” Similarly, medieval iconic depictions of St. Christopher portrayed a man carrying the Christ child because the name Christopher literally means “one who bears Christ.”
In our own century, not by chance, the Jesuit Jorge Mario Bergoglio chose Francis as his papal name. It was a gesture of goodwill towards the Franciscan order, the Jesuits’ traditional rivals who revere St. Francis of Assisi, champion of the poor. The name chosen by Pope Francis signaled a new papal agenda, one that focused on reconciliation and caring for the impoverished.
If things are what they are à la Gertrude Stein (“A rose is a rose is a rose”) — that is, if names do constitute a statement of identity or point to an inherent nature, what are we to make of parents who purposely choose a problematic name for their child? A case in point occurred when James Stephen Hogg, a Texas governor in the 1980s, named his only daughter Ima Hogg. (The story that she had a sister named Ura Hogg is apocryphal.) Or what about the fictional boozer in Johnny Cash’s song who, before abandoning his son, “went and named (him) Sue”?
The kid “had to fight (his) whole life through,” concluding that “life ain’t easy for a boy named Sue.” But when Sue meets up with his dad and tries to kill him, the father explains his naming rationale: “If a man’s gonna make it, he’s gotta be tough … / So I give you that name, and I said goodbye / And I knew you’d have to get tough or die. / It’s that name that helped to make you.” One excuse, then, for assigning an unusual name to a baby is that the moniker may lead to a tougher, more resilient or thick-skinned adult.
My own experience is that it took years to appreciate my first name, which is Madison. Ironically, once I grew to relish it, I found myself in the middle of a gender dispute.
While growing up in the South in the 1950s, I longed to meet another boy who shared my first name. I was named for my father, and he was named for his maternal grandfather, who was born close to the time when former President James Madison died. But by the time I was born, the name no longer proved popular. Like Napoleon, my maternal grandfather’s name, Madison was considered antiquated.
In addition, one of the most famous persons to carry the name, although as a last name, was a woman born in the 18th century: Dolley Madison. Also, Dolly Madison was an American bakery brand that sold packaged snack foods. No respectable Southern boy wanted to be teased or bullied by being called “Dolly Madison.” And yet, that was my fate. By the time I was in my 20s, I had met only one person besides my father who carried my first name. I took pride in the fact that this other male Madison was a distinguished medical doctor.
In 1984, the movie “Splash” hit the screen, and a blond mermaid (played by Daryl Hannah) adopted the sobriquet Madison. My life was about to change, although I had little inkling of how much. Three years after the movie’s debut, I attended a wedding party at which a white-haired older lady, whom I did not know, turned toward me and spoke rather brusquely, “Madison, come here this instant!” I couldn’t believe she was speaking to me, especially in that tone of voice. I stared at her incredulously.
At that moment a little blond girl skipped past me and replied, “Yes, Grandma, what do you want?” I was stunned: this curly-haired little girl in a frilly dress carried my name. That was the first of scores of females named Madison, Maddison, and the chromosomally correct Madisyn that I would encounter in the decades that followed.
My cherished name had not simply joined unisex or gender-neutral names like Alex, Casey, Charlie, Chris, Jackie, Jamie, Jordan, Kim, Logan, Morgan, Sidney and Sawyer. It had become primarily associated with a female’s name, much like today’s Evelyns and Shirleys. (For the record, I had an Uncle Shirley, and Evelyn Waugh was a male author.)
I began to receive correspondence addressed to Miss or Ms. Madison Sowell; a review of my scholarship by a colleague who did not know me referred to me as “she” and “her.” I had not transitioned my gender, but my name had, from a traditionally male to an overwhelmingly female name. Shades of Dolly Madison, indeed.
The issue became more serious (or ludicrous) when I had to have an MRI of my abdomen for possible kidney stones. One line on the subsequent report stuck out. The doctor who read the image, knowing only my name, reported, “The patient has had a hysterectomy; no uterus is present.”
Other consequences of the gender switch associated with my name multiplied. Once, I went to pick up an elderly aunt who had memory issues and was having her hair done at a local beauty parlor. I arrived early and sat in a chair near her while waiting for the beautician to finish.
Another beauty operator directly across from us finished with her client and announced, “I’m going to pick up Madison.” My relative looked at her with a puzzled expression. I rushed to explain that my aunt was confused because my name was Madison.
The beautician responded indignantly, “My daughter’s name is Madison!” In attempting to smooth over my faux pas in acknowledging that I also shared her girl’s name, I replied meekly that some parents were now even naming their daughters Taylor. Staring at me coldly, the beautician retorted, “My daughter’s middle name is Taylor!” And with that pronouncement, she huffily marched off.
Like the boy named Sue, I have learned to steel myself against incredulous stares when I identify myself as Madison. Further, I have been made tougher for having to justify my name with such statements as “Madison was a boy’s name when I was born” or “No, I have not had a sex change operation; I was born male.”
What I would like to suggest, however, is that parents thoughtfully consider the question “What’s in a name?” before selecting something willy-nilly. They may want to consider Dante’s maxim in a new light: Names may not only be the consequences of things; names may also lead to consequences that prove overly challenging for a youth growing up in an age when bullying is now the norm, not the exception.