What’s in a name?
One of the more annoying features of our society is the tendency to shorten names, whether the bearers of those names agree or not. Thus Thomas becomes Tom, Daniel becomes Dan, and Christopher becomes Chris. I have a particular problem with that last one, just as Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Webster might have problems with the first two.
If my parents wanted to call me Chris, they should have named me that, not Christopher. Nonetheless, they did call me Chris (or, when feeling particularly sappy, Christy) throughout my life. I hated it, but never had the nerve to say anything about it. My favorite aunt gained that status by always calling me Christopher. My parents only used it when I had committed some felony.
Of course, a unisex name like Chris meant that I came in for a lot of abuse in school. I would like to say that I eventually became inured to being called Christine, but I didn’t.
It was only when I returned to school in middle age that I gained the self-confidence to do something about it. Again, it was my favorite aunt who inspired me. She was named Mary Madge and endured being called by her middle name for most of her life. After her mother, my grandmother, died, however, she informed us in no uncertain terms that she never wanted to hear the name Madge again. She was Maggie and we’d damn well better get used to it. It wasn’t all that hard, because Maggie fit her much better than that other name.
But enough about her. The name Christopher means “bearer of Christ,” coming from the almost certainly apocryphal saint who theoretically carried the young Jesus across a river. Now, why my parents would stick me with that name is a puzzlement. They were agnostic at best, and my mother once described herself (to a priest, of course) as a pagan. It’s a tough name to live up to and I’ve been wrestling with it all my life. Still do, especially now that I claim to belong to all religions, not just Christianity.
Nonetheless, I felt that if I was to have the name, I wanted all of it. So I followed Aunt Maggie’s lead and insisted on Christopher. Some people in my family still haven’t gotten it. Business acquaintances tend to use the shortened version, while theatrical people are more respectful.
There is also the matter of simple euphony. Chris Key sounds harsh and Teutonic. Christopher Key, on the other hand has a very poetic flow to it. Because I use my full name in conversation, in business and onstage, I truly appreciate it when someone asks my preference before referring to me as Chris. I do my best to return the favor. Someone in The Preacher’s comments section didn’t bother to ask. Rather than provide that person with a new anal orifice, I decided to sermonize instead.
The other interesting phenomenon has to do with my last name. It is Scottish, originally MacKey, more frequently written Mackey. Some distant ancestor wandered off to England seeking work and found that he got along much better in a very class conscious society by dropping the Mac. It made for a very succinct surname. Throughout my life, some people have insisted on making it longer. I can’t count the number of times I have ended up as Keys or even Keyes. Since some people use those versions of the name, I gather that they gave up trying to fight it.
One of the family legends involves my Uncle, Albert Henry Key. He lived in San Francisco and used only his initials in his phone listing. For most of his life, he was inundated with mail and phone calls from various Chinese societies who thought he was Ah Key.
Your name is a very important part of who you are. Some societies never reveal their real names and take on other handles for use in public. I have to admit I’ve considered that from time to time. I was given a tribal name when I was adopted into the Raven clan of the Tlingits. Only a few close friends know what it is or what it means. So my birth name is now my public name.
Thanks in advance for not abbreviating me or making me plural.
8:22:35 PM 
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