What’s in a Name?

Blinded by her love for Romeo, Juliet fatally underestimates the importance of branding:

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet.”

But it is not the rose -- the thing in itself -- but the “rose” -- that bundle of expectations -- that we smell. Call the rose something else, and we might not smell the sweetness; more likely, we would not take time to smell it at all. Alas, a rose is always a “rose.” And Romeo remains a Montague, whatever other attractions he may possess.

Names matter in academe, too, but how they matter is a complicated question.

The main character in Don DeLillo’s White Noise recalls how he was advised by a senior administrator to change his name if he wanted to be taken seriously as a scholar of “Hitler studies.”

“Jack Gladney would not do, he said, and asked me what other names I might have at my disposal. We finally agreed that I should invent an extra initial and call myself J. A. K. Gladney, a tag I wore like a borrowed suit.”

As you may know, my real name -- William Pannapacker -- is awkward and unusual; I have to spell it all the time, and I am used to people mangling it, sometimes maliciously.

Near the beginning of my academic career I considered changing my last name, worried that it might be a professional handicap. My graduate adviser said, “Your name is distinctive, and that can be an asset.” In other words, like Tigger in Winnie the Pooh, the most wonderful thing about me is that I’m the only one. When you Google my name, almost no one else turns up; I can’t hide in plain sight like someone named Smith.

In Tristram Shandy, Laurence Sterne presents a scholar-eccentric who believes, “There is nothing more important than choosing a name,” and proceeds to name his son, “Trismegistus” after the mysterious occult figure he admires. Unfortunately, the intermediating minister baptizes the infant with the eponymous name, ensuring Tristram’s unhappy destiny.

Similarly, I suspect that my name has contributed -- for good or ill -- to the person I have become.

Most of the more notable members of my extended family have chosen to Anglicize their name into “Pennypacker,” which has vague associations with all those old Philadelphia gentlemen who were prominent in politics and war. There is even a “Pennypacker Hall” at Harvard, named for an educator and coach who served there a century ago. But my particular branch came from Mennonite farmers in Southeastern Pennsylvania and then industrial workers in Philadelphia. My peculiar spelling -- probably phonetic -- was the choice of my great-great grandfather, the first to venture into the big city in the 1880s.

Being a “Pannapacker” is not quite like being a boy named Sue, but I can tell you it was no joke growing up with an anomalous name in Philadelphia’s parochial schools, filled with the children of Irish and Italian immigrants. “Banana-packer” was the best variation -- excluding the ones that involve body parts -- that the devilish minds of preadolescents were able to devise.

Now my children are growing up in West Michigan, which is dominated by the Dutch, and I wonder what they are experiencing, given my own daily encounters:

At the checkout lane of, let’s call it, the Vandersluisdykstrahaas Sundries Store, the cashier, a 60-ish lady, says while looking at my Visa card, “Pannapacker, what sort of name is that?”

“It used to be Dutch,” I say, “but it’s changed over the years.” And that’s the truth, as far I know. The Pfannebeckers came here in the 17th century from the Netherlands, where they were tile makers (the origin of the name).

“Hmm. It sounds German to me,” she says, wrinkling her nose and handing the card back to me. West Michigan is probably the only place in America where there are strong incentives to pass as Dutch. Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t.

My students at Hope College struggle with “Professor Pannapacker.” Seven syllables are at least three too many. Even “Dr. Pannapacker” saves only one syllable. Most students end up calling me simply “Professor,” which makes me feel like the oddball scientist from Gilligan’s Island, a TV show I hope they don’t remember. I’ve heard that behind my back they sometimes call me “Dr. Pack-a-crackers” and the “Pac-Daddy.”

I’d be happier if they called me “T-bone.”

I am proud of my family’s history, but I have always envied people with common names that do not need to be explained all the time. American culture is name-obsessed, probably owing to the tensions between assimilation and the preservation of ethnic identity. But success seems to come easier to people with common American names that confer confidence and a stronger sense of belonging.

Think of all the actors who gave up their original names to appeal to a mass audience: Marion Morrison became John Wayne, Archibald Leach became Cary Grant, and Issur Danielovitch became Kirk Douglas. Robert Allen Zimmerman became Bob Dylan, and John Mellencamp was forced, early in his career, to become “Johnny Cougar,” which he seems never to have stopped resenting.

I haven’t done a study, but I’ve noticed that a disproportionate number of academics have long, peculiar, and nerdy names. I wonder if childhood teasing led them to bookishness and the pursuit of teacher approval. Does having a strange name confer the position of outsider and critic? And, if so, does there ever come a time in one’s life when it is best to assume a new identity without the burdens of the past?

I wonder if there might be some advantages to giving devotional names to academics -- at the time of tenure -- the way the Roman Catholic Church does with priests and nuns, such as “Sister Mary Francis of the Five Wounds.” I could become “Professor William of the 1855 Leaves.” Or perhaps, following some Native American customs, we could have professional names granted to us by our colleagues: “Professor Drives-a-Volvo”; “Professor Went-to-Harvard”; “Professor Gives-All-As,” and so on.

But since those are not, as yet, viable options, what name might I choose if I want to make a break with the past? Where can I turn for advice?

The Internet offers any number of Web sites that translate one’s name into more occupationally appropriate equivalents. My pirate name, for example, is “Yardarm Lafayette.” My country singer name is “Wild Bill Austin.” My hip-hop name is “Vanilla Cube Z.” And my porn-star name is “Hardman Armstrong.”

But what about my first name? “William” has a pretty good history. There’s William the Conqueror, William Wallace, William Blake, William Faulkner, and, of course, Shakespeare. But the name seems to be in decline; I haven’t met a William in any of my classes in eight years -- and that’s something like 1,000 students. It’s getting about as old-fashioned and obscure as “Galusha.”

Fortunately, first names are more malleable than last names. A young schoolteacher and journalist named Walter Whitman decided to go by the simpler, more populist “Walt” when he became a poet. It distinguished him from the more elite poets of his time who preferred three names: Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell Lowell, and John Greenleaf Whittier, among others. Following Whitman’s move, I once wrote under the name “Bill,” which no longer quite suits me in print.

Freakonomics, by Steven D. Levitt and Stephen J. Dubner, contains a chapter called “A Roshanda by Any Other Name,” in which they consider the relationship between first names and economic prospects, showing, for example, that having a name associated with a lower-class status or racial identity can affect employer preconceptions about job candidates: Richard gets an interview and DeShawn’s résumé gets thrown away. But the connotations of names are highly variable over time: Not a single name that was popular for white girls in 1960 was still popular in 2000. Boys’ names are somewhat more stable and less vulnerable to creativity. Nevertheless, Levitt and Dubner conclude -- too easily, in my opinion -- that names “aren’t likely to make a shard of difference.”

I wonder how often I make assumptions about students based on their names. I sometimes have a momentary negative reaction to creative spellings -- such as Ashlay and Brittaneigh -- partly because of the added work of having to remember them. On the other hand, I may assume great things for some students based on their names. My all-time favorite was a student named “Albertus Magnus Dahlberg.” I don’t recall what grade he earned, but, from the beginning, I assumed it would be high: He was, after all, “Albert the Great.”

“Come hither to me -- hither, hither,” said Peleg, in Moby-Dick; “Captain Ahab did not name himself . . . wrong not Captain Ahab, because he happens to have a wicked name.” But Ishmael’s instincts were right: Ahab’s name was his destiny.

And so I have to wonder whether I was helped in elementary school because I didn’t have a name with working-class, ethnic associations that might have destined me for manual labor or the police department in the eyes of my middle-class teachers. My name was distinctive, and so they often noticed me in positive ways that only reinforced the negative attention I sometimes received from my peers.

But consider my case in relation to the newly arrived immigrant from a nonwestern culture, or to someone clearly marked as lower class, or to the predicament of women who face more problematic options than any man: Take the name of a spouse? Keep one’s original name? Hyphenate? Have a professional name and a personal name? No matter what, you lose something. Overall, my choices have been easier.

If your name is Hussein, are you likely to get a job teaching English? Have you ever met a Seungyoung who teaches phys ed? What if your name is MistyMarie? Could you ever work as a biochemist? And what if you’ve invested decades in a name that belongs to a marriage that no longer exists?

We may not choose our names, but I am convinced that to some extent, our names shape us. And if I decide at some point to no longer be “Thomas H. Benton,” I wonder what will be the consequences.