My parents were married, and 9 months to the day later I was born. Somewhere in there they gave me a name, or rather, more correctly they lent me my father’s name. Yes I said it, lent, although lease to own might be more appropriate. See, I have the same name as dad, who has the same first name as his father. Since we are kinda Italian and there are only so many Saints, the same name as about 15 other people within the family. (Woman in the family learn a special way of saying “Jim” that garners them instant attention from the 15 of us who share the name….it’s like its hard wired in to our genetics.)
Not to be out done, when my son was born I sub leased my father’s name to him. So dad owns it, and my son stands to inherit it. So here I am among the masses of folks who don’t own their name.
Dad is a good guy but what about personal identity? What about all of the responsibility I have to not soil a name as long standing as mine, with the added knowledge I have already passed it on to the next generation? I guess I should have thought about all of that.
I’m not complaining, those who know me, and know my family, are just as likely to say that the name is apt, or comment “you’re just like your dad.” I am a “Jim.”
As far as identity some of that has been determined for me. Mom had to call me something other than James as a kid. She had a small list of alternates. I imagine she had a list and crossed them off, or at least I hope so to justify what I ended up with.
1. James, Christened name our starting point.
2. Jim, This is what she called dad, so that’s out.
3. Jimmy, We are not in the sausage business.
4. Jimmer, My grandmother (faced with a similar dilemma) used this on my father.
5. Jamie, This is what I ended up with, Joy.
Saddled now with Jamie I was sent forth into the world. Kids at school called me Jim, but that proved to be the last time I have gotten to choose my nickname. The family called me Jamie until some strange day in high school where mom determined I was too grown up for it, and called me James, out of the blue, it freaked me out….no one ever calls me James.
Once you get used to being nicknamed they seem to gather about you. You don’t get to pick them, so, on some level you need a good sense of humor and an appreciation of them, like code names.
Faced with the option of calling me Jamie, or picking another name for me, friends of my parents chose Butchy, the antithesis of Jamie, as my secondary childhood moniker. It was just the beginning. Since then my collection has grown: Butch, Big Jim, Big Daddy, Jimbo, Yeti, Mellon, Sasquatch. Seeing the trend? This doesn’t include the long and morphing list compiled from my father, each a two word combination, with one involving a body part (rock head, ring eye, etc).
The responsibility portion of the name is a bit more challenging. At a certain basic level we owe it to our parents to make good the life they gave us, and by extension the name. I think the days of doing the same thing as dad, or inheriting the family business are slowly ending. But other than that do we owe our parents anything? After all we didn’t choose to be born, we didn’t choose the name….it happened too us all. Parents choose to have kids for their reasons, by definition selfish reasons, in the least to spread their genetic material. You can’t be altruistic to something that doesn’t yet exist. So although they loved you after you were born, they didn’t before you were conceived.
I choose to have kids for my own reasons, and to whit, I don’t want my kids to feel in the least indebted to me for making that decision. I want their respect, there love, and the prospect of grandchildren. But I do not want them to unduly alter their lives for a perceived dept they had no chance at avoiding. I want my kids to look and move forward, hopefully avoiding the mistakes I have made, and living a happy life. If they choose not to look back, I will miss them, but not hold it against them.
Parents are the outfitters for the journey of life. We prepare them, educate them, and provide them with resources. We then have to let them take their journey, hoping they return, knowing the bill will never get paid.
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