The Name of the Game Is Confusion

It’s a subject I’ve never written about before. But when I read an article recently about a trend toward parents naming their kids exotic names with unusual spellings, I knew my time had come.

I can say with some authority that with a name like Philomene d’Ursin Resnikoff, there is no hope for a normal life.

On Monday, the clerk at the health food store handed my check to the clerk next to him and said, “I’ll give you a dollar if you can say any of these names right the first time.” (He couldn’t.)

On Wednesday, as I paid for my purchase at a local department store, the salesgirl inquired, “What’s this at the top of your check?”

“That’s my name,” I said.

“That’s your name ?” she replied. “Unreal!”

Thursday, at the bank, the teller looked at my check and said, “Does your husband let you sign on this account?”

“It’s my account,” I replied. “That’s my name.”

“Oh. You’re Philo . . . you know, this person?”

The tragedy of it all, of course, is that my mother’s name was Margaret Smith. There I was, ethnically eligible to join the legions of Kathies and Susies and Barbaras that filled my school classes. Mother, however, a woman always ahead of her time, vowed that her first daughter would never have to share a name with a cast of thousands.

In her search for exotic names, Mother was ecstatic to discover that my father’s grandmother was named Philomene--pronounced Phil-o-men, with an accent grave on the first “e”; pretend the second “e” isn’t there. (There will be a quiz on this at the end.) Unfortunately, it looks like Phil-o-mean; it’s the French version of the more common Philomena. Indeed, most people assume I don’t know how to spell my own name and generously change it to Philomena for me on mailing lists, paychecks and even legal documents.

Subsequently, of course, I married a Resnikoff, and fulfilled my mother’s wildest dreams.

You who are thinking of naming your child something “distinctive” should know that I spent a great deal of my childhood searching futilely through racks of tiny license plates for one that said “Philomene.” (I would have even settled for Philomena.) We’re talking major psychic harm here.

Due to the ambiguous nature of my first name, I spent my school years being assigned to boy’s gym and getting ads for men’s underwear. When I was 18, the Marine Corps informed me I was their man.

One of the ongoing traumas of my adult life is being at the mercy of a person who I know is going to completely butcher my name in front of a large group of people. At the doctor’s office I sit poised on the edge of my chair ready to leap to my feet and say, “That’s me!” before the nurse can bellow “Phi-LOM-en-ie Re-SINK-off” or “Phil-o-meanie RESK-in-off.” Even people who are virtually comatose perk up and turn around to see who has a name like that. (I was once paged at Stapleton Airport and never recognized my name.)

At work, I have found that no one returns my phone calls unless I provide a pronounceable alternative; for example, “Please call ‘Phil.’ ” The nameplate on my office door comes complete with a phonetic spelling.

I would be remiss if I did not mention that there are advantages to having an unusual name. People remember you. They remember that you have an odd name. Problem is, they don’t remember what that name is. I have been introduced variously as Phyllis, Filament, Philemon, Philadelphia, Philomela, Philodendron and (alas) Philistine.

Too, an unusual name keeps you honest. There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t remember that there is not another Philomene Resnikoff I could be confused with.

I’m also told that an unusual name builds character, but that may just be a euphemism for the fact that you learn to fight early.

So if you’re still determined to give your child an unusual name, go ahead. But I can guarantee two things:

(1) Your child will spell this name for others, by my calculation, a minimum of 72,800 times. They will see it spelled correctly an average of eight.

(2) They will give their kids names like “Margaret Smith.”