Shakespeare’s Juliet once said that a rose by any other name smells as sweet. She was asking, in effect, “What difference does it make whether I’m a Capulet or a Montague?” -- two feuding families that kept her from her lover Romeo.
Well, it turned out that whether or not you were a Montague or Capulet made all the difference. Names, tragically, meant everything.
This is certainly true of surnames. It helped Franklin Roosevelt that his wife’s uncle was Teddy Roosevelt, a popular ex-president. As for Jeb Bush, well, he must labor in the shadow of his brother’s recent presidency – though, if his last name weren’t Bush, he might not be as far along as he is.
But what can we say about first names? They can be cruel.
I once heard about a man whose last name was Wilbur. That’s OK, except that his parents made Wilbur his first and middle names, too.
Governor Hogg of Texas named his two daughters Ima and Eura.
When I was in college I had a friend whose father’s name was Hubert Herbert Hinson. His mother’s name was Glyda Mae. We called them Triple H and Glyda Mae.
When I was born, my mother -- who loved the war hero General Eisenhower -- wanted to name me Dwight. My Texas uncle Tommy intervened and insisted I be named after him.
Thanks, Uncle Tommy. If I’d been named Dwight, I’d have felt I should become an Army officer instead of a talking radio head, which is, let’s face it what I am.
I’m Tom McBride, and that’s my Perspective.
