A Name of One’s Own
Editor’s Note: This piece is an expansion of an essay published in the current issue of National Review.
Beto O’Rourke, the ex-congressman from El Paso, has decided to run for president. He is being teased for jumping on counters, to talk to voters in diners. He is also being teased about his name: “Beto.” What’s he trying to get away with? He’s no Hispanic. He’s Robert Francis O’Rourke.
He is indeed. But from infancy, he has been called “Beto.” This is a Spanish nickname for “Roberto” (and for “Alberto” and for other names that end in “berto”). El Paso, home of the O’Rourkes (!), is a strongly Hispanic community.
Incidentally, El Paso is where Susana Martinez grew up. I’m talking about the Republican who was governor from 2011 to 2019 in neighboring New Mexico.
Moreover, Baby Beto had a grandfather named “Robert,” and the baby’s parents wanted to distinguish their new addition from him. So …
Flash forward to college. Beto O’Rourke enrolled at Columbia in New York, and he tried going by “Robert” for a while. “I didn’t want to explain what ‘Beto’ is and how to pronounce it,” he told an interviewer last year. “I wanted to fit in, and ‘Beto’ doesn’t fit in. … There’s also a disconnect, right? There’s this tall white guy, and he’s ‘Beto.’”
Even so, the young man thought of himself as “Beto,” not “Robert,” and “Robert” soon went.
Flash forward to last month, on St. Patrick’s Day. The Republican National Committee issued a tweet, showing O’Rourke’s mug shot. (He was arrested for drunk driving in 1998.) They put a leprechaun-style hat on his head and said, “On this St. Paddy’s Day, a special message from noted Irishman Robert Francis O’Rourke.” That message was “PLEASE DRINK RESPONSIBLY.”
Personally, I think people have a right to the name of their choice, pronounced the way they prefer. We could think of exceptions to this rule, as to most rules. But I think it is a rule.
By the way, Beto O’Rourke pronounces his name “Bet-o” rather than “Bait-o.” It rhymes with “falsetto” rather than “Plato.”
Got time for a quick George Bush story? Good. I’m talking Bush 41. A speechwriter placed a quotation by Demosthenes — it might have been Thucydides — in some speech. Not wanting to stumble over pronunciation, the president said, simply, “Plato.” Probably no one was the wiser.
Back to the pronunciation of “Beto.” From the mouths of most Spanish-speakers, the name is pronounced somewhere between “Bet-o” and “Bait-o,” but closer to the former. This is hard for us Anglos to pull off. I have a memory, from long ago: Rita Moreno, the Broadway star, was trying to get Americans to say her name correctly. They said “Moraino,” to rhyme with “Drano” (the de-clogging product). She wanted her name to rhyme with “steno,” as in “pool.”
Let’s move on …
In his language column, back in 1983, William Safire took up the question of names and their pronunciations. He wrote, “Your house may not be your castle, but your moniker is your property to pronounce the way you like and to correct others about.” He mentioned the case of Tony Dorsett, the football star.
When Dorsett was in college, we all said “DOR-sit.” When he got to the pros, he announced that he wanted his name pronounced “Dor-SETT.” I can tell you that I found it hard to adjust — but that’s what the guy wanted. (In truth, a lot of people called him “TD,” plain and simple. Those were his initials, and, more important, they stood for “touchdown.”)
Leonard Bernstein, the musician, said “Bernstine,” not “Bernsteen.” “You don’t say ‘Gertrude Steen,’” he explained. “And you don’t say ‘Albert Einsteen.’” There are Bernsteens in the world — plenty of them — but the musician preferred “Bernstine.”
Okay — but I once worked with a man who insisted on calling him “Bernsteen.” It was a point of pride with him, somehow. He was stubborn about it. I think he thought Bernstein was trying to get away with something, or put on airs. And he wasn’t gonna let him …
Return, now, to Texas. Last year, Beto O’Rourke ran for the U.S. Senate, losing to the incumbent, Ted Cruz. Ted’s full name is “Rafael Edward Cruz.” (His father came from Cuba as a refugee.) Ted grew up as “Felito” — but in junior high, he wanted out of that name. How come? He explained in his autobiography, published in 2015.
(Perhaps I should pause to explain why I am calling him “Ted,” rather than “Cruz” or “the senator” — he and I are old friends. It feels natural.)
The problem with “Felito,” Ted writes, “was that it seemed to rhyme with every major corn chip on the market — Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos, Tostitos — a fact that other young children were quite happy to point out.” He continues, “I was tired of being teased. One day I had a conversation with my mother about it and she said, ‘You know, you could change your name. There are a number of other possibilities.’”
This hit the young man like a thunderbolt. “It was a shocking concept,” Ted writes. “It had never occurred to me that I had any input on my name.” He decided on “Ted,” derived from his middle name, Edward.
Self-reinvention is as American as apple pie. Think of Jay Gatsby, a.k.a. the Great Gatsby, who started out in North Dakota as “Jimmy Gatz.” “Gatz,” huh? Possibly Jewish? This has been a theory, or suggestion, among literary critics.
There was a time when many American Jews felt they had to Anglicize, or de-Judaize, their names. I think merely of opera singers — a slew of them. Rubin Ticker became Richard Tucker. Jacob Pincus Perelmuth — Tucker’s brother-in-law, as it happened — became Jan Peerce. Before he was that, he sang as “Jack Pearl” and “Pinky Pearl.” Moishe Miller became Robert Merrill. Previously, he was Morris Miller, and then Merrill Miller. (Finally, Robert Merrill.)
Can you guess Belle Silverman? She became Beverly Sills. And this one is easy: Roberta Peters, previously, was Roberta Peterman.
We could dwell on a few Italians too. Dean Martin, from Steubenville, Ohio, started out as Dino Crocetti. Before he became “Dean Martin,” he sang as “Dino Martini,” borrowing from Nino Martini, a tenor (like Tucker and Peerce).
Do you know the tenor Charles Anthony? He was born Charles Anthony Caruso, in 1929. That last name was kind of taken, tenor-wise. He dropped it, and kept the other two.
Back to Jews for a moment, please. I was once at an event with Mike Wallace, the TV journalist, who was originally “Myron,” not “Mike.” He recounted a story from his boyhood: “Mr. Maddy said to me, ‘Now, Myron …’ — because that’s my name, ‘Myron.’” He pointed to himself as he said this. I was rather touched by the tense — the present tense.
Jimmy Van Heusen, the songwriter, started out as Chester Babcock. He wanted what he regarded as a more stylish name — and wound up adopting “Van Heusen.” He noticed the name while looking through a magazine, which had an ad for men’s shirts.
Years later, the name “Chester Babcock” found its way into one of Bob Hope’s Road movies, The Road to Hong Kong (1962). That was the name of Hope’s character. All his life, Van Heusen’s nearest, dearest friends called him “Chet.”
Names are such a personal thing. So very personal.
I was talking about politics before. Let’s get back to it. In 1976, an ex-governor of Georgia ran for president as “Jimmy.” (One of the names that Chet Babcock ultimately chose!) Surely he couldn’t be president as Jimmy, a lot of people thought. “Jimmy” might have been all right for Georgia. But a Jimmy on the world stage, talking with Brezhnev and the rest?
In November, he won, beating President Ford. In the months before the inauguration, the question was, How will he be sworn in? As “James Earl Carter Jr.”? Or as “Jimmy”?
He stuck to “Jimmy,” simply because he wanted to, and because he could.
In 1984, Gary Hart ran for the Democratic nomination. Once upon a time, he had been “Hartpence.” Some Republicans liked to refer to him, hootingly, as “Hartpence.” What was he trying to get away with? Moreover, he had changed his signature, several times! Obviously, he was a flake trying to work out an identity.
I bet a lot of people have tried out more than one signature, before settling on one.
In 1988, William F. Buckley Jr. hosted the first debate of the Republican-primary season. One candidate, Pete du Pont, was jabbing another candidate, Vice President Bush, for a lack of specifics on arms control. “We’re waiting for details,” he said, “and we’re hearing generalities.” Bush replied — not very nicely — “Pierre, let me help you.”
Ooooh. True, du Pont is Pierre S. du Pont IV. But he has always been known as “Pete.” They alternate in their family, as the candidate explained after the debate. No. 3 was called “Pierre.” No. 4 is “Pete.” No. 5 is “Pierre.” That’s the way it goes.
Regardless, Bush had succeeded in framing his opponent as a fancypants aristocrat, and French, to boot. David Broder, “the dean of the Washington press corps,” as he was known, wrote that “the night belonged to Bush — the man who dared to call a Pierre a Pierre.”
Bush himself was no plebe, of course: He was George Herbert Walker Bush. While we’re talking of names, I love something that Bush said after his eldest son was sworn in as president in 2001: “I used to be ‘George Bush.’ I used to be ‘the president.’ I don’t know who the hell I am anymore.”
The Bushes’ second-oldest son is Jeb — whose name comes from his initials, his formal name being John Ellis Bush.
During the Obama years, some Republicans liked to knock the president as “Barry.” One day, I saw a headline with the name “Barry” in it. I thought it referred to the notorious D.C. politician, Marion S. Barry (with the “S” standing for “Shepilov,” an interesting story in itself). Nope, the headline referred to Obama — who, for a time in his early life, which was a complicated life, went by the first name “Barry.”
Some people have complicated lives. Including presidents. Gerald R. Ford was born Leslie Lynch King Jr. Bill Clinton grew up as Billy Blythe. Very complicated, very messy.
In 2008, Mitt Romney ran for the GOP presidential nomination, unsuccessfully, and he tried for it again in ’12, this time succeeding. A lot of people didn’t like Romney — lefties and righties alike. A few of my colleagues insisted on calling him “Willard”: “because that’s his name,” one of them said: “Willard.” Occasionally, they threw in “Mittens,” just for extra mockery, I suppose.
Yes, the guy’s name is Willard Mitt Romney. The “Willard” comes from J. Willard Marriott, the hotel entrepreneur, who was a friend of Romney’s father. The “Mitt” comes from a relative, Milton Romney, a quarterback for the Chicago Bears in the 1920s — whose nickname was “Mitt.” Before kindergarten, the future politician was known as “Billy.” In kindergarten, he decided he wanted to be called “Mitt.”
You can knock him all you want, as far as I’m concerned — it’s a free country. But what does calling him “Willard” or “Mittens” accomplish?
Abram became Abraham; Jacob became Israel; Saul became Paul. All of this is terribly significant. Leaving the Bible, shall we go to sports?
Cassius Clay became Muhammad Ali — owing to a religious conversion. Before that, he was simply “Cassius X.” That letter stood for the name you could not possibly know, because it had come from Africa, in slave days, and had been erased.
Malcolm Little came to despise his name — a name he felt did not really belong to him but had been thrust on him and his family. He chose his own name, “Malcolm X.” I can understand this — anyone could. (Some people said “Malcolm the Tenth,” some of them innocently, some of them mischievously.)
Lew Alcindor became Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. Many Americans continued to say “Alcindor,” as they had “Clay” — out of habit, defiance, or contempt. A name change can be a disorienting experience, both for the individual concerned and for the world around him.
Stick with basketball? Lloyd B. Free became World B. Free. (Explanation: Back in the neighborhood — Brooklyn — he had been known as “All-World,” later shortened to “World.”) Ron Artest became Metta World Peace. (“World Peace” is the last name; “Metta” is the first name, borrowed from Buddhism.)
To say it again, names are a very personal, very sensitive thing. In Detroit, we had a pitcher on the Tigers, Willie Hernandez, who came from Puerto Rico. At some point, he rebelled against the Anglo-American moniker that had been put on him: “Willie.” He let everyone know that he wanted to be called “Guillermo,” his name. It was hard for a lot of us to adjust, but …
I went to school with a girl named Yolanda, who, having had enough of what many considered an outlandish name, switched to “Renée.” I might have preferred her to tough it out, but I understood. I have a friend who wanted to ditch his first name. At Starbucks, he left a variety of names, trying them out. How would they sound to him, when they were called? Did one of them feel right? Eventually, one of them did.
I’ll call you whatever you want, in the way you want, within reason. What do I mean, “within reason”? Well, if you asked me to call you “Your Royal Highness,” the American in me would balk — even if you were the Queen of Sheba.
Okay, how do I feel about pronouns? Oh, geez. I wrote an essay about that, several years ago. I don’t want to reopen that can of worms just now, having just traversed the (mainly) wonderful world of names …
