A little over a week ago, my pal Tim Virkkala wrote an entry at his blog about his name. At least, I’ve always thought of him as my pal Tim Virkkala. Turns out, he’s not quite that:
Say I introduce myself to a man. I call myself “Timothy.” And only one in ten men will use my name. Without prompting, they’ll call me “Tim.”
With women, this is about half and half. Half of women, or perhaps a few more, when prompted with “Timothy” will respond with “Timothy.” To the rest I’m automatically given (and without asking permission) the name “Tim.”
So usually I give up. I’m Tim to people I meet. I even introduce myself as such, especially in business. It’s just not worth a struggle with every man I meet. It is hard to go up against an in-grained bigotry.
To Finns and some others I’ve pushed the Finnish version: “Timo.” That’s a lark. It’s certainly preferable to me than “Tim.” It more accurately echoes the Greek origin of the word: honor.
But the point is, by common practice in American manners, I am not allowed my given, Christian name, the name my parents gave me. My use of it for writing became a “pen name,” a pseudonym, without my intention. All because people have their preferences, and “Timothy” bugs them.
That it doesn’t bug me bugs them, too.
It is not manly enough a name, I gather. It implies weakness. And when I’m firmly shaking another man’s hand, this man doesn’t want to say “Timothy,” he wants to say something shorter, “harder.”
I can’t remember whether he introduced himself to me as “Timothy” the first time I met him (although I presume he did) — but I’m certain that everybody else we worked with, during the eight months we spent together at Liberty, all called him “Tim.” So I assumed that’s what he went by, and called him “Tim” as well. It’s what I’ve always called him. I never realized I was causing offense, if only slight.
I’m not so sure it’s an aversion to a name that’s not quite “manly” enough, though — I’d guess it’s more a general aversion to formality. “Timothy” seems formal, proper, almost standoffish; “Tim” seems friendly and familiar. Maybe it’s a shortcut for people to pretend they know him better than they do. A kind of attempted ingratiation, or glad-handling. If that’s the case, it’s no surprise to me that it would rankle. I’ve always been annoyed, myself, by the sort of people who, after barely an introduction, are inclined to clap me on the back and jovially call me, say, “big guy.” No, thanks.
I’ve always had a resistance to changes of name. A kid I’d known for years as “Benjy” decided, once he reached 6th grade, that he was now “Ben.” He had to remind me several times not to call him by his more childlike nickname, and it took a couple of years before it no longer seemed strange to say it. The last time I saw his mom — sometime in the late ’90s, I think — she was still calling him “Benjy.” A girl I’d become good friends with in high school decided, when she left for college, that she’d rather go by “Anne” than “Heather.” Justin and I scoffed at the change at first, but then decided, hey, she’s a friend — if this is what she wants to go by, that’s what we’ll call her. But I still slipped up almost every time I saw her. At first, she’d remind me to call her “Anne,” and then later said she didn’t mind — she could go by “Heather” with her old friends. And now that we haven’t seen her in a few years, Justin and I have reverted to calling her “Heather” whenever we recall our times together. Or, almost sarcastically, “Heather Anne.”
My brother, who we all called “Stephen” over the years, began in high school (or even middle school, perhaps) introducing himself to people as “Steve.” Everyone in the family still calls him “Stephen,” though, and I’m not sure whether or not this bothers him. I suspect that his change may have been spurred by people mistakenly pronouncing his written name “Stefan,” because of the tricky “ph” — that he’d had enough and opted instead for the simpler “Steve.”
I think a primary reason I’ve always felt hesitant to adopt name changes is that names are so tied linguistically to identity. It felt absurd to me at first to use “Anne” instead of “Heather,” as much as if someone were to try convincing me that the correct word for “dinosaur” is now “Wednesday,” or the name for a light reddish color is no longer “pink,” but “lunch.” (Both of these, incidentally, are examples from a 1980s episode of The Twilight Zone.)
I know Tim
My pal Tim Virkkala (or Wirkman Virkkala, depending on the day, or the context, or something) has been updating and expanding his web presence
This despite the fact that I had asked about his use of “Wirkman,” instead of “Timothy,” more than a year earlier, and he graciously responded:
I have a great deal of affection for the name Timothy, which I associate
with
- my favorite grass sporting a great culm
- the pathetic hero of “Homecoming,” one of Ray Bradbury’s greatest stories
- the sidekick of S/Paul of Tarsus
- timidity
Now, these are fine things to think about when thinking of me as a person.
But I prefer my ancient family name, Wirkman, as a name for a writer.
So resistant am I to name changes, that even after reading his entry about it the day he posted it, feeling chastened, and deciding to write (eventually) this entry in response, I called him “Tim” again in an email I wrote to him this afternoon. Which brings me to the last few lines of Timothy’s entry:
Still, respect is the hallmark of a peaceful society. Calling a person by the name he (or she) prefers, that’s a sign of respect.
And since respect for individuals is at the heart of the libertarian idea, I do expect libertarians to be a little more sympathetic to my switch.
Still, “Timothy” is a lost cause. Only a few people use it. Call me Timo. Or Wirkman.
Or if you know me from the past, in the flesh, “Tim” will have to do. For most of you.
But you might want to give respect a chance.
And so I’ll try. I doubt the attempt will be effortless or consistent, but it’s not a matter of disrespect — more like thoughtlessness and habit.
