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gunwithoutmusicMy family was gathered around the tree watching A Christmas Story on TV when the conversation turned to names. My sister had been talking about the different names that she had been deciding between for my niece before finally settling on Blake. My husband talked about where his parents came up with his name, and my mother casually mentioned that I was almost named Jamie, but decided to name me Sean at almost the last minute.
This came as a bit of a surprise to me, because I’d never heard before that my name almost wasn’t Sean. Thirty-five years I had gone without that knowledge, and my mother just mentioned it off-hand like it wasn’t even a big deal at all. I suppose that, to her, it wasn’t a big deal. After all, expecting parents bounce around different name ideas as a matter of course, so, in her mind, she was just offering up an interesting tidbit of trivia.
My mind, however, raced with the processing of this information. Shakespeare famously wrote, “that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” but I’m not so sure about that. For example, there exist languages in which certain colors don’t have names. I’m not talking about the standard red, orange, yellow, etc., but rather that the languages don’t have names for certain shades or tones of the standard colors, and the speakers of those languages can’t actually distinguish between various shades of blue that they don’t have names for, instead seeing them all as “blue.” So there’s something to be said for the idea that a name can make a large difference in one’s experience of the world. Sure, a rose by any other name might actually smell the same, but if we assigned a different name to a rose, its smell may not be considered “sweet” anymore.
But this isn’t about roses; it’s about me, so let’s get back to that. I found myself wondering what my life might have been like had I been born a “Jamie” instead of a “Sean.” Would it have been better? Would it have been worse? Would it have been exactly the same? There’s no way of knowing, of course, but my mind loves to come up with ways to bring me down, so I followed the assumption that, had I been Jamie, my life may have been so much better.
There are few inconveniences in my life that would have been rectified by being named Jamie. When I was a kid, Sean was not an uncommon name by any means, but in the South, it was typically spelled “Shaun” or “Shawn” instead of the traditional Irish spelling. So children (and some adults, too, believe it or not) would see my name and think that it was pronounced “Seen,” as though some parent would unironically name their child Seen (although that would lend itself to quite a few puns about being “Seen and not heard”). It was tiring pronouncing my name for every person I met, and for a time during my childhood, I really hated my name.
Jamie wouldn’t have had that problem. People would see Jamie and say it correctly, and I never would have become exasperated by having to correct everyone around me. Jamie wouldn’t have become so jaded at such a young age by seeing how thoughtless and ignorant other children can be. Jamie would have been willing to introduce himself to people, and people would have never spelled his name wrong.
Jamie would have been more popular, as he would have been more eager to meet people. Being more popular, Jamie would have been more into being outside and playing and exercising with the other children. Jamie wouldn’t have spent all day in his room reading books and eating junk food. Jamie would have stayed skinny and wouldn’t have been made fun of for his weight.
Jamie wouldn’t have to develop an iron skin and a sharp wit as defense mechanisms as an eight-year-old. He wouldn’t have to find out that laughing at himself was the best way to disarm the bullies, that getting out in front of things and making fun of himself for being fat would stop them in their tracks.
He might have gotten into sports, and been part of the popular crowd in school. He would have been loved and admired. He would be the one that everyone was looking forward to seeing again at the high school reunion.
With all that self-esteem, Jamie would have gone after his goals with gusto, and not been paralyzed by a fear of rejection because of his looks or his weight. Jamie could have done anything. He wouldn’t walk into a Starbucks at thirty-five years old and find himself excited that the barista correctly spelled his name on the outside of the cup.
But then, Jamie might not have been a writer. He might not have found a love of performing on stage in high school, both as an actor and as a musical artist. He might not have slaved away over art pieces and honed his creative talents. Being creative isn’t always “cool,” and Jamie might have rejected that creativity in the name of popularity.
When I think about Jamie, I think about everything I could have been, and, at first glance, it seems great. But there’s no way of knowing what Jamie might have been. There’s no way of knowing whether Jamie was destined for greatness or obscurity. And there’s really no point in wondering at all, anyway.
Might Jamie have been more comfortable in his own skin more quickly that Sean was? Maybe, maybe not. But, as Sean, I am comfortable in my own skin now, and I am comfortable with my name, as frustrating as the Starbucks baristas may be, as annoying as the clients that still misspell my name over e-mail (despite it being right there in my signature line) are, as much as I sometimes look at my name and frown a little.
Given a different name, would a rose still smell as sweet? Given a different name, would I still be me? I really don’t know, but I do know that I’m happy now being me, and that’s enough.
This came as a bit of a surprise to me, because I’d never heard before that my name almost wasn’t Sean. Thirty-five years I had gone without that knowledge, and my mother just mentioned it off-hand like it wasn’t even a big deal at all. I suppose that, to her, it wasn’t a big deal. After all, expecting parents bounce around different name ideas as a matter of course, so, in her mind, she was just offering up an interesting tidbit of trivia.
My mind, however, raced with the processing of this information. Shakespeare famously wrote, “that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” but I’m not so sure about that. For example, there exist languages in which certain colors don’t have names. I’m not talking about the standard red, orange, yellow, etc., but rather that the languages don’t have names for certain shades or tones of the standard colors, and the speakers of those languages can’t actually distinguish between various shades of blue that they don’t have names for, instead seeing them all as “blue.” So there’s something to be said for the idea that a name can make a large difference in one’s experience of the world. Sure, a rose by any other name might actually smell the same, but if we assigned a different name to a rose, its smell may not be considered “sweet” anymore.
But this isn’t about roses; it’s about me, so let’s get back to that. I found myself wondering what my life might have been like had I been born a “Jamie” instead of a “Sean.” Would it have been better? Would it have been worse? Would it have been exactly the same? There’s no way of knowing, of course, but my mind loves to come up with ways to bring me down, so I followed the assumption that, had I been Jamie, my life may have been so much better.
There are few inconveniences in my life that would have been rectified by being named Jamie. When I was a kid, Sean was not an uncommon name by any means, but in the South, it was typically spelled “Shaun” or “Shawn” instead of the traditional Irish spelling. So children (and some adults, too, believe it or not) would see my name and think that it was pronounced “Seen,” as though some parent would unironically name their child Seen (although that would lend itself to quite a few puns about being “Seen and not heard”). It was tiring pronouncing my name for every person I met, and for a time during my childhood, I really hated my name.
Jamie wouldn’t have had that problem. People would see Jamie and say it correctly, and I never would have become exasperated by having to correct everyone around me. Jamie wouldn’t have become so jaded at such a young age by seeing how thoughtless and ignorant other children can be. Jamie would have been willing to introduce himself to people, and people would have never spelled his name wrong.
Jamie would have been more popular, as he would have been more eager to meet people. Being more popular, Jamie would have been more into being outside and playing and exercising with the other children. Jamie wouldn’t have spent all day in his room reading books and eating junk food. Jamie would have stayed skinny and wouldn’t have been made fun of for his weight.
Jamie wouldn’t have to develop an iron skin and a sharp wit as defense mechanisms as an eight-year-old. He wouldn’t have to find out that laughing at himself was the best way to disarm the bullies, that getting out in front of things and making fun of himself for being fat would stop them in their tracks.
He might have gotten into sports, and been part of the popular crowd in school. He would have been loved and admired. He would be the one that everyone was looking forward to seeing again at the high school reunion.
With all that self-esteem, Jamie would have gone after his goals with gusto, and not been paralyzed by a fear of rejection because of his looks or his weight. Jamie could have done anything. He wouldn’t walk into a Starbucks at thirty-five years old and find himself excited that the barista correctly spelled his name on the outside of the cup.
But then, Jamie might not have been a writer. He might not have found a love of performing on stage in high school, both as an actor and as a musical artist. He might not have slaved away over art pieces and honed his creative talents. Being creative isn’t always “cool,” and Jamie might have rejected that creativity in the name of popularity.
When I think about Jamie, I think about everything I could have been, and, at first glance, it seems great. But there’s no way of knowing what Jamie might have been. There’s no way of knowing whether Jamie was destined for greatness or obscurity. And there’s really no point in wondering at all, anyway.
Might Jamie have been more comfortable in his own skin more quickly that Sean was? Maybe, maybe not. But, as Sean, I am comfortable in my own skin now, and I am comfortable with my name, as frustrating as the Starbucks baristas may be, as annoying as the clients that still misspell my name over e-mail (despite it being right there in my signature line) are, as much as I sometimes look at my name and frown a little.
Given a different name, would a rose still smell as sweet? Given a different name, would I still be me? I really don’t know, but I do know that I’m happy now being me, and that’s enough.
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Date: 2021-03-26 08:43 pm (UTC)I could see you as a James, but definitely not a Jamie or a Jim, or even a Jimmy. Jim does sound a bit country bumpkin - I've never called my son Jim. Jimmy, yes, when I was pregnant (and every now and then, I call him St. Jimmy, like on the Green Day "American Idiot" album), but mostly James. He's a fun kid, but he's so focused and smart that James fits. Sometimes, you just - know. You would have been a James, too. But I cannot imagine you as anyone but a Sean, and I happen to like Sean a hell of a lot. :)