Wrong Name

In school, my parents excelled at Math, Science, English, and History. But obviously, they failed at Naming Babies 101. On the night I was born my parents had assumed that they were having a baby girl. They had decided on the name Shaquita. Unfortunately for them, I was a boy. My mom called my biological dad, who was in the Marion Federal Penitentiary, and told him he had a son and explained that the child needed a name. My dad’s first suggestion was to name me after his last vision of freedom before the iron gates closed at the big house, and that was the nearby town of Christopher, Illinois. Out of respect, or maybe just plain fear, he also suggested that my mom should name me after his cellmate, John Gotti.¹ Not wanting to name her son after a mobster, my mother decided upon the name Christopher.

The name Christopher means “Christ-like.” But, Jesus Christ and I have very little in common. When Christ was born he received gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. When I was born I received gifts of dresses, diapers, and pink hair bows. Christ was the son of a carpenter, I—the son of a jailbird. Jesus told parables to guide mankind to the path of righteousness. I tell fibs to keep myself out of trouble. Jesus humbly washed the feet of his disciples, and I only take biweekly baths if my mom makes me. Christ turned water into wine, but I have the talent of turning white snow into yellow mush.

If my parents were on their respective A-games on the day I was born, they would have chosen a very different name. Based on my current personality, several other individuals have more in common with me than Christ. Frequently, people tell me that I have a beautiful singing voice, thus I could have been named after Cher. Based on my penchant for speeding, I could have been named after Ricky Bobby or Starsky. Oprah would have made a good namesake, because we both grew up in households without our biological fathers. Due to my incredible strength, I probably should have been named Hercules. By combining the first letters of each possible name, the perfect name for me can be found. Ch-ri-st-op-her; maybe my mom had it right after all.

As a little boy I was perfectly satisfied with my name until I learned to write. I became instantly jealous of my best friend in preschool, Ben. At Mrs. Ronda’s Montessori School, we had to write our name five times before we could get in the snack line. Ben had to write fifteen letters and I had to write fifty-five. I was always last in line, and the kids with shorter names took the best snacks before I got there. After a few days of stomach-rumbling penmanship I openly declared that I my name was Chris not Christopher. Even though I am now a high school student, my aptitude for minimalism causes me to answer to Chris.

Frequently, I wonder how other people’s names affect them. Some people are ridiculed for having a humorous name such as Itamar. Others treated with fear and respect for having a name such as Regina Johnson.² In Shakespeare, Juliet says to Romeo, “What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.” But Juliet was wrong, everything is better at the front of the snack line when you only have to write fifteen letters.

1 - Itamar comes from the name Itamar Shapira.  He is my one of my classmates.  He likes pistachios.
2 - Regina Johnson is my English teacher.  She was the one who graded many of my essays including this one.  This essay got a 95.