What's in a Name?

5

A.T. Buesching

What's in a Name

That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet? Bullshit. Renowned as Shakespeare was, I have to wonder if he ever gave that quote any thought before he had to name his children. A rose isn't exactly capable of considering the name given to it, unlike a child.

"Oh! What do you think about Liam?" I heard Jessica say from behind her tablet, "That's a hot one right now."

I simply shook my head, but for her, I always did it smiling. Jessica had been born into a trendy family that wanted her to fit the mold of her generation, a desire that began with her name. Commonplace as it might have been at the time, it was beautiful when you said all her names together - Jessica Madison Day. I use to joke with her when we first started seeing one another; I'd surprise her with reservations she thought were beyond me, or by just taking a day from work to spend it with her (much to the suspicion of her grandfather, who was my boss at the time). When she asked me what the occasion was, I would reply, "You haven't heard? It's Jessica Madison Day!" She hated that, and yet she loved it.

"No? How come? He could be like Liam Neeson! Isn't that what you were telling me about before? Him acting like his namesake?"

It may sound like some ridiculous rhetoric to most people, but I truly believe that the names we are given play a critical role in shaping our lives. Jessica had things well enough; a typical, solid name that, for the life of me, I couldn't find a kink in that some snarky brat on a jungle-gym might twist into something that made the name feel scrimpy. I, on the other hand, had my share of teasing - Big Meany Deany, Jelly Dean, Jimmy Dean the Lean, Deany the Genie, Little Weenie Deany, and of course, Loser. But, all name-calling aside (past or potential, cleaver or otherwise), when I came to realize what may have been the intent behind the name I'd tried to hide, my outlook began to change. Was it my father's design for me to make the comparison? To gravitate toward a literal meaning and peruse a life as one wanting to preside over the education of others? To become pretentious - as some might say - and defensive of my accomplishments? I remain doubtful. But such is the power of names; a diction that guides the very trajectory of one's life through a lens that filters our perceptions.

"I'm not so sure how I feel about giving him such a...Well, you don't want him in a classroom with three other Liams, right?" I said between a sip of my drink while remaining genuine.

"Ugh...Yeah, no, you're right. He might think he's just another face in the crowd. Oh!" She placed her tablet on the coffee table and situated herself into a mound of pillows, gently cupping her swelling belly with one hand, and inviting me join her on the couch with the other. I got up from my recliner across from her, finishing my glass of scotch as I did so. I placed what was now a glass with a metal ball next to her "not-book" and took my place beside her on that white chenille that was beginning to feel so shrunken.

"You getting kicked around again?" I ask playfully, moving my hand to meet hers on the event horizon.

"Yup." She giggled as we both felt another soft bop. "We should name him Landon! Oh! Or Donovan!" A reference lost on me at the time, so I asked her to explain.

Now that was something I hadn't considered: To steer my son toward athletic prowess. A life I'd never thought myself to be suited for, not for a Dean. But a Landon? The name slowly began to grow on me. It evoked a masculine character, yet elegantly captured Jessica's English ancestry. She was, after all, the one I wanted any child of ours to take after most.

"Well? You like either of those? I kind of like Landon."

While I wasn't entirely enthused with the idea of naming our child directly after another man who wasn't even family (and one my wife was all too knowledgeable of, nonetheless), I could find solace in knowing that my boy had widely evaded a fate that might have taken me if it hadn't been for my mother's objection - to be dubbed a junior. A terrible, subjugating title that would have firmly rooted me in my father's shadow. Always the young Desmond Descoteaux, but never truly Desmond Descoteaux. Even as a child, I promised myself I would never allow any legacy of mine to be subjected to belittlement on the basis of their name. That meant no Dean, no demining suffixes, and certainly no Simon Timothy Descoteaux, a name Jessica had suggested once in the past, but dropped promptly upon noting the initials. Landon, admittedly, left no noticeable opening for attack by young provocateurs. Not to mention the fact that he could go by Lando. That was simply unfair.

"Hey, you there?"

But then there was the middle name. While not nearly as important as the first, it could carry whatever connotations the first may not have had room for. What then? What to name a boy to embody strength and family, but also command the respect of peers? At first, I thought it was the sudden flux of questions I felt bombarding my head, but it was Jessica, flicking my temple.

"Hey! Wake up! Did you hear what I said?" She was suddenly stern.

"Oh, sorry Jess. I was just mulling that over, actually."

"And?" Her eyes lit up.

"What do you think about Landon...Alistair Descoteaux?"

"Oh my god, Dean, that's perfect!" Her excitement was mounting as she frisked her back pocket. Already she felt the need to make an announcement to the world of some kind, maybe to gather feedback form friend and stranger alike. "Alistair. Like, after my grandfather?"

"He's the whole reason we met, right? He'd be like the bridge between the name you gave him and the one he'll get from me, regardless." I lightly tap at a barrage of kicks form Jessica's belly. "Hmm, I hope that doesn't mean he'd rather be a Simon Timothy." I joked, not noticing that Jessica's eyes had begun to water. "Are you alright?" I asked, knowing she was more than alright.

"Mmhm." She hummed, wiping her eyes with the collar of her shirt.

"Come here." I shift in my seat so she could lie down beside me. Though just inches from falling onto the hardwood below, I was held in place by a hand extended to my shoulder and a tearful blonde head pressed into my neck. Her voice was muffled, but I could just make out the last of what she said.

"...would have made him so happy."

Landon Alistair Descoteaux, our son, grew up to be a great man. I may never know what he really thought of our gift, but he never once complained about it, never shunned or disused it. He had, to my amazement, gone on to be a revered sportsman, even after being free to decide his own pursuits. A freedom I never really felt I had back when I was his age. But even now, when I watch him play, I can't help but wonder if such potential could have been wasted if we'd settled to call him by any other name.