My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.
In Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Juliet says to Romeo, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Unfortunately, during the past decades too many contemporary children have been encumbered with first names that are not so sweet. When will someone cry foul?
Ordinary people who “blessed” their children with unconventional names applaud the fact that celebrities joined the nontraditional name game. Gwyneth Paltrow’s daughter, Apple Blythe Alison Martin, is the fruit of her eye. Nicole Kidman delivered Sunday Rose, a weekday flower. Jermaine Jackson has a seasonal child, Autumn. He also fathered his royal Jermajesty. True, is one of Forest Whitaker’s daughters. The other has the poetic name of Sonnet, and Ocean is her brother. Sylvester Stallone’s son, Sage Moonblood, is the spice of his life. And seen in videos whipping her hair like windblown tree leaves is Will and Jada Smith’s daughter, Willow.
Celeb children are unlikely to be negatively affected by their names, but underprivileged children who get stuck with names like Mercedes, Lexus, or Electra may not fare as well. What’s more, children whose parents modify the spelling of their child’s name from the norm place a burden on them as well.
In 2005, Steven Levitt and Roland G. Fryer published a research paper titled A Roshanda by Any Other Name. The two economists collected data from birth certificates and other sources for every child born in the state of California beginning in 1961. Covering more than 16 million births, the study examines the dissimilarity in names of children in different cultures and raises the question of whether or not a person’s name could be instrumental in determining their fate. In addition, the report reveals significant variation in the spelling of some names. One example is Unique, spelled on different birth certificates as “Uneek, Uneque, and Uneqqee.” There was no indication of whether the children’s parents elected the distinct spelling or just did not know how to spell the word.
Do you believe that giving a child a tongue twister forename or a string of co-joined first names, or a name that is totally bizarre could ultimately prove detrimental to the child? Think about it – how many professional males (excluding athletes and hip hoppers) do you know named DeAvante, Baccardi, or Andarius? Know any prominent career women named Shaquintah, Qweeta, or Saneika? No, I did not make those names up. And as hard as I tried to validate that an infant reportedly born November 7, 2005, in Wilmington, NC was named Ah’Justice Armagedon, except for a few slight references on questionable web sites, I found nothing. But if it is true — God help Armagedon.
Some people call even an examination of this topic racist, but whether people are willing to admit it or not, so-called urban names raise a red flag that invites stereotyping and – right or wrong – elicits questions about a person’s socioeconomic status. Whether or not a person’s name determines one’s fate remains debatable. As you contemplate that, picture this – an employer receives two resumes for an open position. Education, skills, and other factors show that both applicants qualify. One job seeker is named William E. Johnson; the other is Appollo Adamari Aijon Falcon Smith. Honestly, who do you think will be called-in for an interview? Depends on the employer, some would say. Right.
While riding on public transit one day, I overheard the couple seated behind me discussing ridiculous names that people give their children. Seconds before they burst out in muffled laughter, one said to the other, “If you want to see where people with names like that end up, watch Jerry Springer’s show.”
In Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Juliet says to Romeo, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Unfortunately, during the past decades too many contemporary children have been encumbered with first names that are not so sweet. When will someone cry foul?
Ordinary people who “blessed” their children with unconventional names applaud the fact that celebrities joined the nontraditional name game. Gwyneth Paltrow’s daughter, Apple Blythe Alison Martin, is the fruit of her eye. Nicole Kidman delivered Sunday Rose, a weekday flower. Jermaine Jackson has a seasonal child, Autumn. He also fathered his royal Jermajesty. True, is one of Forest Whitaker’s daughters. The other has the poetic name of Sonnet, and Ocean is her brother. Sylvester Stallone’s son, Sage Moonblood, is the spice of his life. And seen in videos whipping her hair like windblown tree leaves is Will and Jada Smith’s daughter, Willow.
Celeb children are unlikely to be negatively affected by their names, but underprivileged children who get stuck with names like Mercedes, Lexus, or Electra may not fare as well. What’s more, children whose parents modify the spelling of their child’s name from the norm place a burden on them as well.
In 2005, Steven Levitt and Roland G. Fryer published a research paper titled A Roshanda by Any Other Name. The two economists collected data from birth certificates and other sources for every child born in the state of California beginning in 1961. Covering more than 16 million births, the study examines the dissimilarity in names of children in different cultures and raises the question of whether or not a person’s name could be instrumental in determining their fate. In addition, the report reveals significant variation in the spelling of some names. One example is Unique, spelled on different birth certificates as “Uneek, Uneque, and Uneqqee.” There was no indication of whether the children’s parents elected the distinct spelling or just did not know how to spell the word.
Do you believe that giving a child a tongue twister forename or a string of co-joined first names, or a name that is totally bizarre could ultimately prove detrimental to the child? Think about it – how many professional males (excluding athletes and hip hoppers) do you know named DeAvante, Baccardi, or Andarius? Know any prominent career women named Shaquintah, Qweeta, or Saneika? No, I did not make those names up. And as hard as I tried to validate that an infant reportedly born November 7, 2005, in Wilmington, NC was named Ah’Justice Armagedon, except for a few slight references on questionable web sites, I found nothing. But if it is true — God help Armagedon.
Some people call even an examination of this topic racist, but whether people are willing to admit it or not, so-called urban names raise a red flag that invites stereotyping and – right or wrong – elicits questions about a person’s socioeconomic status. Whether or not a person’s name determines one’s fate remains debatable. As you contemplate that, picture this – an employer receives two resumes for an open position. Education, skills, and other factors show that both applicants qualify. One job seeker is named William E. Johnson; the other is Appollo Adamari Aijon Falcon Smith. Honestly, who do you think will be called-in for an interview? Depends on the employer, some would say. Right.
While riding on public transit one day, I overheard the couple seated behind me discussing ridiculous names that people give their children. Seconds before they burst out in muffled laughter, one said to the other, “If you want to see where people with names like that end up, watch Jerry Springer’s show.”
A few years ago, I attended the 35th reunion of my high school 
graduating class. It was the first and last reunion I would attend. Of the 350 students in our class, I considered only about 15 of them to be friends. Among those 15, two were my very best friends. In the years following graduation, my best friends and I remained in touch, and shared the highs and lows of our life experiences including intimate details about our careers, marriages, children, deaths in our families, and divorce.
One of my best friends was Valerie. Unlike me, she kept in touch with former classmates, and attended a number of their get-togethers. As the 35th reunion approached, I resisted her attempt to persuade me to attend. “Come on,” she insisted, “You’ll enjoy it.” My efforts to convince her that I could easily live out the rest of my life and not miss seeing former classmates or revisiting a period that I was happy to move beyond fell on deaf ears, so I relented.
Upon arrival at the hotel ballroom, pre-registrants received a name tag bearing our picture that had been copied from the year book. Valerie and I sat at a table near the door “to see and be seen” she said jokingly. As former students and their spouses or companions arrived and took their seats at tables round the room, Valerie pointed out to me those people who she recognized. A couple of alumnae arrived in wheelchairs, while some others leaned on a cane or walker. Occasionally, one of our former pals like Phil, walked in, spotted Valerie and me and joined us at our table. When we were students, Valerie and I were lumped into the group with others labeled as the poor, shy, quiet kids. We were often shunned by the in-crowd, because we lacked their brash assertiveness, stylish clothes, and haughty attitude. Although, overall the crowd that evening looked pretty good, it was clear that the youthful faces from our yearbook were now etched with age. But what was more evident was that after all the years the cliques remained intact. The birds of a feather from high school days past still flocked together.
The mistress of ceremony and the souvenir program acknowledged some of our classmates who were deceased. Some had died in the Vietnam War; and death claimed others under various circumstances. It was good to see in the mix at least two couples who had been high school sweethearts. They had married immediately after graduation, and there they were, still together like Will and Jada Smith. Well, maybe more like Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee.
When the DJ began playing oldies from our heyday, the best dancers from our class got up and showed that they could still strut their stuff. It wasn’t a wonderful night to remember, but it wasn’t a bad experience either. In spite of the fact that a few faces in the crowd triggered flashbacks of days when I endured teasing, rejection, and longed to fit in, my self-confidence that evening was a million times greater than it had been in my youth. I had grown from a timid, introverted girl into an outspoken and confident woman, who no longer needed the approval of my peers to elevate my self-esteem. I remain grateful that I yielded to Valerie’s wishes and joined her at that reunion, because three years later my dear friend died of breast cancer.