I don’t know when I became aware of my name, but “Jamie” just never sat well with me. It just didn’t sound right though my mother, my Memaw and two aunts persisted. To this day, one of my aunts “slip,” but with a wink and a giggle as I shoot the side eye, letting her get away with calling me Jamie one more time. Scottish in spirit, but skittish to me.
“Jim” never connected with me either, until I worked with a professor from South Africa whose pronunciation made the name sound elegant. He’s the only one who never received a word of correction as I waited for him to say it again. There’s a aire of nobility when addressing Conrad’s young British sailor Jim or a Starfleet Captain Jim, but it does not sound as pleasant if I must answer to it. My paternal grandparents tried, but my recollection is they did not approve of “Jim” or “Jamie” either, and so called me by my given name, “James.” Perhaps they were the affectionate source of my awareness.
I am named after my father to the extent I bear the adjective “Junior” on the end, so as to be distinguished from my progenitor. It took me years to realize we even had the same first name, for he is publicly known by our shared middle name. I could be wrong in this, but I remember hearing a story that he went through most of his college years by a certain nick-name to the extent that no one knew his actual real name, first or middle. I have some of his college textbooks, which on the title pages, one will find his nickname inscribed with healthy quotation marks. I’ve heard others call him by his nickname, not knowing if they actually know his real name to this day. I’m sure if anyone was paying attention they could figure it out by this lesser version of him.
Once I realized I was the junior version of my father, I imagined we were named after the brother of Jesus, the author of a New Testament book, or some king from days of old when knights were bold. Or perhaps his name was settled after extended conversation and deep thought on the part of his parents. Perhaps I was so-named because my parents could think of nothing else, or they had the desire to find something upon which to hang a “junior.” I was at the meeting, but executive decisions were made without my input.
It was not until the birth of our third child, our first son, that I was schooled in the source of our first and last name. If it had ever been taught to me before I certainly did not remember, but I’ve never forgotten this specific lesson. After our first son was born, I made the announcement to my parents, proudly announcing the name we had chosen: his first name (after his maternal grandfather), his middle name (after his fraternal grandfather). I remember my father being silent for a moment and then asking, “what about the family tradition?” What I quickly learned was that the first son in the next consecutive generation has been named James for about the last 400 years. So, for the sake of explanation, my oldest son does not bear the traditional first, middle and last name; rather, he bears the traditional first name “James” followed by two middle names, and the obligatory last name, and no bumper-sticker adjective. Following in the footsteps of his grandfather, our son drops his first name and is called by his second. My middle name is reserved for use when I’m in trouble.
