Onomastics and Nomomisia

Arthur C. Brooks, the president of the American Enterprise Institute, has an amusing column in today's New York Times explaining why he doesn't like his first name.  According to Brooks, "Arthur" is an "old man's name," and has been ever since he was a child.  His grandfather, also named "Arthur," evidently had the same complaint. Brooks graciously avoids blaming his parents for his discomfort, though it isn't too hard to read between the lines, given the obvious inference that they should have known better than to addle him with a name that was already outdated at his birth.

Of course, the popularity of every name will rise and fall, which is part of the field of onomastics.  Aversion to particular names is nomomisia, and dislike of your own name, Brooks tells us, would therefore be autonomomisia.  In any case, some children are given perfectly benign names, only to see them age badly, eventually becoming anachronisms, if not outright signifiers of desuetude. 

I wrote a column to that effect for the Chicago Tribune, back in 1997, lamenting that "Steve" had become an old guy's name.  You can read it after the jump, if you are so inclined, though you will have to excuse time-bound references to things like a 56000 bps modem as the ultimate in modern technology. (Also, I didn't write the headline.)

CHICAGO TRIBUNE

November 3, 1997

Section: COMMENTARY

ODE TO A GENERATION OF HAS–BEENS

Steve Lubet.

This year's list of most popular names was just released and, as usual, my name wasn't on it. This came as no surprise. After all, I wasn't born yesterday. (If I had been born yesterday my name would probably be Michael or Kevin or Justin). Anyhow, I've come to accept the fact that "Steve" is no longer a fashionable name. Oh, we Stevens and Stephens have had our heyday, contributing to the popular imagination of such ionic figures as Stax guitarist Steve Cropper and Hollywood savant Steven Spielberg. But those guys were named decades ago. Today no one–and I mean no one!–would ever think of calling a boy-child Steve. Don't believe me? Check out your local kindergarten directory.

Now, it wouldn't be so bad to have a wonderfully offbeat name. The Top 10 list quickly becomes mundane in any era, so contemporary Matthews and Jonathans will soon enough lament the difficulty of distinguishing themselves from all of the other little Matthews and Jonathans bouncing around on today's playgrounds. It would be much better, more romantic, and probably socially advantageous to be called something bold like Alaric or Karim. Or maybe something with a literary ring like Oberon or Lorca.

But Steve isn't unusual; the world is crummy with guys named Steve. You can find us at every corner, in every office, on every block. The problem is that we're all, well, rather dated. Try going to some quadragenarian conclave, say a Rolling Stones concert, and yell "Hey Steve, I think I found your wallet." Then get out of the way before you're elbowed to death by a multitude of slightly balding, thick-waisted (or maybe thick, wasted) men frantically patting their hip pockets for reassurance that their driver's licenses and credit cards are resting snugly in place.

Though I've been living in deep denial, I think the time has finally come to admit the truth. Steve has become an old guy's name.

When I was a kid there were names that belonged exclusively to old men. Horace, Clarence, Herbert, Milton. Those were names of elderly, out-of-date, slightly comic, often rural, definitely well-seasoned gentlemen whose temporal irrelevance was betrayed by their unfortunately pre-modern names. And let's not overlook Zeke. Zeke, as I surely do not need to remind anyone named Steve, was the gray-at-the-temples handyman in the "Dick and Jane" books. He was kindly, helpful, practical and quaint. Dick and Jane's parents, of course, were youthful, trim and efficient in the streamlined, post-war mold of the 1950s. They were named Mom and Dad–you could hardly get more modern than that. But Zeke was a little stooped and a little old-fashioned. Clearly a throwback, he wore bibbed overalls as opposed to Dad's well-pressed suits and Mom's prim dresses. Zeke carried a toolbox, unlike Dad, who worked in an office.

So now Dick and Jane themselves have names that no one wants (though Sally seems to be hanging on by a thread). And Steve? Steve, I fear, is fast becoming the Zeke of the late 20th Century. Think of a modern guy, a guy with a 56000 bps modem and the scuzzy cable to back it up, a guy who understands the rules of rugby or lacrosse. That guy is named Brandon or Dylan or Sean or Todd. Steve, on the other hand, chews on a pencil, still follows baseball, wears wingtips instead of Timberlands and worries more about his prostate than his data port. At least Zeke was the repository of half-forgotten but still important skills, like fixing a doorstep or a picket fence. Steve, however, is in danger of becoming not only old but useless as well, left behind both nominally and technologically.

There still might be a chance for one last hurrah. Stephen Seagal continues to pack 'em in for displays of pectoral mayhem, and Steve Jobs has been given another shot at reviving Apple Computer. Maybe they'll hit big and parents will again be inspired to start naming their offspring Steve, hoping to produce pony-tailed muscle men or brilliant, bearded wonks. But I doubt it. Part of the charm of Seagal and Jobs is precisely that they hark back to a simpler era. (OK, in Jobs' case we're talking 1989, but in Silicon Valley that's the Zeke-age.)

No, I think that we are going to have to face the music. Steve had a great run, lasting more than a century from Stephen A. Douglas and Stephen Foster to Steve Spurrier, Stephen Hawking, Little Stevie Wonder and the Steve Miller Band. But now it's over. Let us take our places with the Harrys and Claudes and Ernests and Marvins of the past, finding some modest dignity in our ability to smile in unison as we slide into comfortable obsolescence.

It could be worse. At least we don't see too many parents naming their kids Newt!