Despertar

to name a few

I love names. They're my favorite thing about life, pretty much. They're my favorite thing about the Sims, my favorite thing about meeting new people, my favorite thing about my favorite novels. There's nothing I love better than when I open a novel for the first time and discover the inside cover is a family tree to which I'm expected to refer throughout the story. I love to read about big families and examine the names they give their children, guessing at what their similarities reveal about the parents who chose them.

I find it really hard to identify with people who don't care what they name their children. Charlie Sheen is a fan of simple, easy-to-remember names, so Brooke Mueller agreed to name their twin sons Max and Bob. Not Maxwell or Maximilian, not Robert; Max and Bob. That, coupled with the fact that she married Charlie Sheen in spite of everything, makes me think Brooke Mueller is pretty stupid.

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I know this is completely irrational, but it's one of my pet peeves: American parents who adopt internationally, then give their ethnic children bland, overused names that (generally) you wouldn't find on any child born to nonwhite American parents. I am always meeting little Asian girls named Katie and Emily, and West Indian girls named Hannah, and it drives me crazy because it's symbolic of the complete imposition of the parents' superior culture. We are raising this child because we are better and more capable than her birth family, it says, and in so doing, we are erasing every trace element of her natural background and replacing it with our own, better traditions.

Before you say it, I know it's ridiculous that I feel that way. In general, I really respect and admire people who adopt, and my annoyance at meeting black Beckys doesn't outweigh my respect for parents who share their homes with children in need. The reason it irks me so much is just, I don't know, I think part of your duty, if you adopt interracially, is to equip your child to respond to the assumptions strangers will make when they see her face. Help her blend in, avoid confusing her about who she is. If she's black, the world is going to treat her as such, and ninety-nine percent of black parents of all socioeconomic statuses wouldn't dream of naming a daughter Becky. (In fact, the term "Becky" is actually used as a slang term among lots of nonwhite people. It means "white girl," for the simple reason that most people named Becky are white. And Rebecca/Rebeca/Rebekah doesn't count for the purposes of this discussion.)

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It's complicated, though, because at the other end of the spectrum, I also believe parents should try to give their children names that won't trigger future employers' prejudices. Nothing, literally nothing, drives me crazier than parents who knowingly give their children names educated people read as ignorant. Visit any inner-city public school in the District and I guarantee you will find a Laquisha, a Markita, a Delante and a whole slew of kids whose names, when you see them written down, make no phonetic sense whatsoever.

Black people have earned a terrible reputation for cursing their kids with faux-Swahili nightmare names, and I fucking hate it. I feel personal shame for it, which isn't fair at all. I know all the reasons behind it--cultural trends, spotty literacy rates in certain communities, teen pregnancy--and I know it's not a universal affliction, obviously.

I mean, my name is Shannon, which falls barely shy of the Emily/Becky category, and my parents' friends, for the most part, gave their children similarly neutral names. And even though my parents didn't realize they were doing me a favor, I'm incredibly thankful they did. No one ever knows who I am till they meet me, which gives me the chance to define myself on my own terms, to submit a CV that speaks for itself, et cetera, rather than worrying about everything some recruiter might presume to guess about me, as she definitely would were my name Laquisha-Precious Jones. And it makes me really, really sad that some other parents don't take that into consideration, that the scope of their dreams for their children are so limited they can't foresee any way a made-up name might be a barrier.

One time last summer, at the major D.C. firm where I worked, we were eating a catered lunch in between meetings, this very boys'-clubby ordeal--myself and my coworkers Steve, Jake, the other Jake, Mike, John and Tom. In walked a server, this young black woman with cornrows and large hoop earrings, pregnant without a wedding ring, very pretty but the very embodiment of every stereotype--wearing a nametag that read Bre'yonna. As the men continued to talk, Bre'yonna set out a crudité platter, refilled the coffee pot and left.

The second she stepped out the door, towheaded Tom leaned in with a gleam in his eye and said "Okay, did anyone see her nametag?"

Some people had. They laughed about it, spelled the offending name for the benefit of those who hadn't noticed.

"Okay," boomed Tom, whom I hated, "now, how the hell would one even try to pronounce that?"

Immediately, six pairs of eyes swung in my direction, then ricocheted awkwardly away. I can only imagine the face I was making. The conversation turned to "crazy" (read: black) names the guys had encountered in their careers, then slid mercifully back into business.

It didn't occur to me till much later (espirit d'escalier, et cetera) that I should have just said "It's obviously a bastardization of Briana, you elitist assholes." But by then I'd already signed away my next summer to the same elitist assholes, so to amend my silence would have been sort of, I don't know, self-sabotaging.)

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And it's not just that I want better things for black people; that's not the only reason that stuff drives me crazy. I have a personal stake in this, too. My favorite name ever, right now, is Dashiell. I think it's so beautiful; I love the unaspirated "sh" sound. Were I to have a son right now, I would want to name him Dashiell James (except that it wouldn't work if I married Justin, because his last name has assonance with the James part).

It's beautiful, it's French, it's the given name of the author of The Maltese Falcon and it lends itself to at least one adorable nickname. But I can't give it to any son of mine. Guess why? Because, thanks to the phenomenon we just discussed, and given that any son of mine will necessarily be a person of color, I have no doubt the majority of people meeting him for the first time would, upon learning his name, misinterpret it as something ignorant like D'ashaquell. They'd think, great, another black kid with a weird name. Then they'd decide not to give him the high-level job/let him date their daughter/treat him like a normal, worthwhile person, and his life would be ruined, and it would be my fault because I put my own selfish interests before his.

It's so unfair. So, so, freaking, unfair. I tear up every time I think about it, another thing I can't do however I want to because the Bre'yonnas of the world have fucked it up for me. Because the whoever-elses of the world have fucked it up for them.

And yes, I'm totally aware most people reading this probably think I am totally overstating the issue, that I should go ahead and name him whatever I want, because that's what they'd do. You just have to trust me that it doesn't work that way.

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Justin wants to name his daughter Natalie. His second choice is Claire. He doesn't have a boy's name picked out. I could live with either one of those. I like Claire, and I could get used to Natalie. Honestly, though, I'm hoping I have really tough pregnancies so my future husband pities me and defers those major decisions. Generally speaking, men never quite get what a big deal this is.