What’s in a Name?

Video Version Here

I can’t think of anything that helps define us more than our names. You may identify yourself by your gender, sexual orientation, profession, or your role in your family or friend group.  But without your name, those identities are secondary.

Yet, in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Juliet pronounces, “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” This has been interpreted in a couple of ways. One way to hear it is that Juliet doesn’t care that Romeo’s name is Montague, her family’s rival. She loves him regardless of what family he comes from. Another interpretation is that Juliet is comparing Romeo to a rose, and that he would be as handsome and worthy of her love even if he wasn’t named Romeo.

At its face-value, Shakespeare’s quote implies that the names of things do not affect what they really are, at their essence. You are still you even if you change your name. Countless women have changed their last names when they married. Some couples are creating new married last names. Transgendered people often change their first names to reflect their gender identity. These name changes are significant, and help shape a new identity, but the core of the self, the God-spark within, is unchanged.

“What are you thinking about, Hon?” I asked.

It was about three years into Harvey’s time with Alzheimer’s disease. We were in bed for the night, and I noticed that he was looking pensive, with his fist tucked under his chin, murmuring, “Hmm.”

“I’m thinking about changing my name,” he replied.

It was all I could do not to giggle. I wanted to reply, “So, are you thinking about, maybe, Xavier? Chad? Yves?” Instead, I asked, “Why is that?”

His language skills were quite diminished at this point, but he replied, “Well. My name. Horrible. They gave me to it.”

“Oh, you don’t like the name Harvey?”

“No!”

“So would you rather be Scott?”

“Yes, better name.”

Harvey’s full name was Harvey Scott Harmon, named after both of his grandfathers. The plan was to call him Scott, but when grandfather Harvey heard they had named their son after him, that set of grandparents, who lived nearby, began to call him Harvey and it stuck. Harvey’s parents didn’t have the heart to countermand this grandfather.

“So you want us to call you Scott from now on? That’s going to be hard. You’ve been Harvey for 53 years.”

“I like better.”

A few minutes later, Harvey was making the “Hmm” sounds again.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Those two men that are gone.”

“Does this have something to do with your name?”

“Talley.”

“Oh, Talley Scott Bowden? Your mother’s father?”

“Yes, I liked him better.”

“Is that why you want to change your name?”

“Maybe.”

The next morning, at breakfast, I playfully addressed him as Scott. I wasn’t sure if he would remember our previous night’s conversation, but he chuckled and said, “I don’t think this will work.” He remained Harvey.

Eight years into his disease, besides “Yes” and “No,” Harvey’s last understandable spoken word was his name. He was no longer “Bro,” “Dad,” or “Doc.” It became a test of sorts for me to ask him his name. I rejoiced inside every time he said it, sometimes with an awkward pause or pronunciation. It indicated to me that he knew who he was. He had retained his sense of self.

But Harvey would still be his own self, even if I called him Scott. Or Hon. Or My Love.