The Strange Burden of a Name

By LANCE MORROW

A name is sometimes a ridiculous fate. For example, a man afflicted with the name of Kill Sin Pimple lived in Sussex, in 1609. In the spring of that year, the record shows, Kill Sin served on a jury with his Puritan neighbors, including Fly Debate Roberts, More Fruit Fowler, God Reward Smart, Be Faithful Joiner and Fight the Good Fight of Faith White. Poor men. At birth, their parents had turned them into religious bumper stickers.

Names may carry strange freights -- perverse jokes, weird energies of inflicted embarrassment. Another 17th century Puritan child was condemned to bear the name of Flie Fornication Andrewes. Of course, it is also possible that Andrewes sailed along, calling himself by a jaunty, executive "F.F. Andrewes." Even the most humiliating name can sometimes be painted over or escaped altogether. Initials are invaluable: H.R. (Bob) Haldeman, of the Nixon White House, deftly suppressed Harry Robbins: "Harry Haldeman" might not have worked for him.

Names have an intricate life of their own. Where married women and power are concerned, the issue becomes poignant. The official elongation of the name of Hillary Rodham Clinton suggests some of the effects achieved when customs of naming drift into the dangerous atmospheres of politics and feminism.

The history of "Hillary Rodham Clinton" goes back in time, like a novel: at birth, Bill Clinton was William Jefferson Blythe, his father being a young salesman named William Jefferson Blythe 3rd, who died in a car accident before Bill was born. In a story now familiar, the 15-year-old future President legally changed his name to Bill Clinton in order to affirm family solidarity with his mother and stepfather, Roger Clinton. In 1975, when Bill Clinton got married, his new wife chose to keep the name Hillary Rodham. But five years later, Clinton was defeated in a run for re-election as Arkansas Governor, at which point, to assert a more conventional family image, Hillary Rodham started calling herself Hillary Clinton. But she was not exactly taking Bill's name either, since "Clinton" had not originally been Bill's. Bill was once removed from his own birth name, so now Hillary was, in a sense, twice removed.

A name may announce something -- or conceal something. In some societies, ; the Arab or Chinese, for example, a beautiful child may be called by a depreciating name -- "Dog," "Stupid," "Ugly," say -- in order to ward off the evil eye. Hillary Rodham knew that in some parts of the political wilds, she attracted the evil eye to the 1992 Democratic ticket. So during her demure, cookie-baker phase, she was emphatically "Hillary Clinton," mute, nodding adorer and helpmate of Bill. She half-concealed herself in "Hillary Clinton" until the coast was clear. With the Inauguration, the formal, formidable triple name has lumbered into place like a convoy of armored cars: Hillary Rodham Clinton.

The name problem for married women is a clumsy mess. Married women have four or more choices. 1) Keep the last name they were given at birth. 2) Take the husband's last name. 3) Use three names, as in Hillary Rodham Clinton; or, as women did in the '70s, join the wife's birth name and the husband's birth name with a hyphen -- a practice that in the third generation down the road would produce geometrically expanded multiple-hyphenated nightmares. 4) Use the unmarried name in most matters professional, and use the husband's name in at least some matters personal and domestic. Most men, if they were to wake up one morning and find themselves transformed into married women, would (rather huffily) choose Option No. 1.

Variations: one woman who has been married three times and divorced three times uses all four available last names, changing them as if she were changing outfits, according to mood or season. More commonly it happens that a woman has made her professional reputation, in her 20s and 30s, while using the name of her first husband, then gets divorced and possibly remarried, but remains stuck with the first husband's name in the middle of her three-name procession.

Names possess a peculiar indelible power -- subversive, evocative, satirical, by turns. The name is an aura, a costume. Dickens knew how names proclaim character -- although anyone named Lance is bound to hope that that is not always true. Democrats used to have fun with "George Herbert Walker Bush." The full inventory of the pedigree, formally decanted, produced a piled-on, Connecticut preppie-Little Lord Fauntleroy effect that went nicely with the populist crack that Bush "was born on third base and thought he had hit a triple."

How many names does a decent person need? For ordinary getting around, two, as a bird requires two wings. More than two, as a rule, is overweight. Only God should use fewer than two.

The words with which people and things are named have a changeful magic. Some cultures invent different names for people in different stages of life. In Chinese tradition a boy of school age would be given a "book name," to be used in arranging marriages and other official matters. A boy's book name might be "Worthy Prince" or "Spring Dragon" or "Celestial Emolument." (Does a father say, "Hello, have you met my boy, Celestial Emolument?")

Hillary Rodham Clinton may find her name changing still further as her White House power evolves. Perhaps by next year, she will be known as "H.R. Clinton." Maybe the year after that, she will be "H.R. (Bob) Clinton."