What's in a name

Ever since I was a very young man, probably around 7 or 8, I have thought about what I would call my kids. Interestingly enough, I've always known on some level that I would have a boy first, so I thought about a boy's name more than a girl's. I remember being in the car with my mom and my sister and blurting out, "I know what I'm going to name my first boy!" To which my obviously confused and curious mother replied, "Really? What?" "Templeton Peck," I responded triumphantly. In retrospect, the character name for pretty boy A-Team member, Face, isn't exactly the most suitable name for a child of mine (Mad Dog Murdock is more in the right arena), but at that moment in time, it seemed so perfect. Needless to say, that name lost its flair and was left behind for a slew of other equally inappropriate yet intriguingly unique names, ranging from Ferdinand Allen to Treat and even the ever infamous Robert Flash Gordon. Thankfully, I married a woman assertive enough to deny me all these variances and yet still be loving enough not to trounce upon my eclectic sense of humor and creativity.

As I grew, gaining minimal levels of maturity through the years, I began thinking of my own name, Robert Austin Gordon. I was named after my mother's two brothers, Robert - an astoundingly magnificent musician, and Austin - an incredibly intelligent yet remarkably goofy and fun loving guy. I'm not really sure if I can claim to take after either of my namesakes, but rather a dim reflection of the two. Since both my first and middle name were already used within the family, a nickname was prescribed - Robin, a combination of the first syllable of Robert and the last syllable of Austin. Through the years, a young boy realizes rather abruptly that he is being called by a girl's name. So, as I moved into kindergarten, I informed everyone that I would be Robert from now on. It didn't stick. I was, at the time, rocking a very cool spike hairdo, similar to what many lesbians roll with now (I'm a trendsetter, what can I say?). So, I garnered the nickname of Spike. When I changed schools in the 4^th grade, I was nicknamed Gordo, a play off my last name and the fact that I was a rather chunky little man – “gordo” means fat in Spanish, for all you non-multilingual readers. When I moved schools again in the 7^th grade, I was bombarded with a series of nicknames like G. Gordon Liddy, Gordon Lightfoot, and Gordon Shumway. When I changed schools yet again in 10^th grade, I was awarded the nickname Bob – I didn’t hang out with an incredibly creative group of people at that time. And finally, my longest lasting nickname was received when I moved to my final school in 11^th grade and was endowed with the “Flash Gordon” legacy, a nickname I share with my father. This nickname is how the majority of my friends still refer to me, and how most people introduce me. There have been many other nicknames, most of which need not be noted.

When Steph and I found out we were pregnant, all these thoughts of names came back to me. I remembered all the names I had previously thought up and how much everyone hated them. I had to think of something original but not retarded that still had meaning to it, a name like Pencil Firefighter Gordon would be considered TOO original and therefore much too retarded and completely without meaning. It was at that point that I thought about my own name again. Family names hold a lot of meaning, but aren’t really original, since they are, in fact, copies of someone else’s names. It bothered me that I couldn’t think of anything truly original, but I did love the idea of family names. It was at that moment I had a great epiphany. Steph and I could use all the family names we had thought up, which are 5 in total (6 if you count Matt-Michael Anderson Gordon), and then just give our unborn son some totally original nickname! It was brilliant, or so we thought.

See, the problem with nicknaming a newborn child is they don’t seem to have too much of a personality to work with. There was the obvious monkey nickname since I’m obsessed with monkeys and the entire nursery is covered in primates, but since we already have a Monkey Daniel in our group, it loses its originality. There was Dad’s contribution, Jumpin’ Jack Flash, which is still a personal favorite. Then we thought about naming him Popeye because he always had one eye closed, but that only lasted for about a week. There were countless nicknames that popped up every time he did something new, One Shoe Jack, Poopers, Jackers, all which had brief stints in use and then were quickly discarded. This process became increasingly frustrating to me. I really wanted him to have a truly unique nickname.

On Father’s Day, it hit me. None of his previous nicknames worked for me because they only emphasized one aspect or ability he had. None of his nicknames seemed to truly capture who he is. And I was completely okay with that because there is no nickname that will properly identify him in my eyes. It’s weird too, because the only name that really connects me to him, the one word that best emphasizes all of him is also the most generic. The best name for him is son. That one name, the most unoriginal, is also the one that holds the most meaning to me. It’s perfectly simple for such a complex purpose, three little letters that encompass the entire emotional range between a father and his boy, three letters that encompass what an entire language fail to do. I love my son.