What's in a Name?

The memory is still vivid. It was 1979, in Greeneville, Tennessee. I was in the eighth grade and part of the Mosheim Elementary girls basketball team. Our team emerged victorious in the end-of-season Northside county tournament, having earned a big fat trophy that may or may not still be on display to this very day.

From Greeneville, Tennessee: The 1979 Northside
Girls Basketball Tournament Most
Valuable Player -- Lisa Carpenter

And every tournament has its star – the individual that garners the coveted “Most Valuable Player” award. Probably one of the biggest surprises I ever experienced in my lifetime is when the announcer called my name as the tournament’s MVP. I was honored. I was humbled. And most of all, I couldn’t wait to see the official documentation of my achievement the next day. That is, my name emblazoned within the pages of the city’s highly respected daily newspaper, the Greeneville Sun.

So when the paper arrived the next day, I expediently flipped through the sports section to the very page that contained the article on the tournament results. And there, in black and white, was the name the paper had listed as the girls tournament MVP – Becky Carpenter.

There’s only one problem with that. My name isn’t Becky.

My heart sank as I realized that the paper had gotten my name wrong. (How does one mistake Lisa for Becky?) My brief moment in the spotlight was spoiled. My brother actually called the paper to inform them of their mistake, but no correction was ever forthcoming.

I guess it seems minor, but to an eighth grader your name in the paper is a big deal – especially for such a major accomplishment. And it must have been a big deal, being that I still remember it.

If nothing else, though, I can take solace in the fact that newspapers screw up people’s names all the time. (Though the screw-up usually entails misspelling a name rather than getting the name entirely wrong.)

According to a recent article by Poynter.com, news organizations frequently run corrections for misspelled names, and in the case of famous people some have misspelled the same name dozens of times. Of recent: Warren Buffett, Michele Bachmann, Elliott Gould, Kanye West, and even Edgar Allan Poe! According to the Poynter.com article, anywhere from 14 to 20 percent of corrections that news organizations publish involve misspelled names.

So what’s the big deal? A lot, actually. Because it’s all about identity. Really, it’s a psychological thing. Take my case. I’m not Becky, I’m Lisa. So when the Greeneville Sun got it wrong, I felt deprived of my identity and the fact that the paper didn’t take the time and the care to get it right. It was as if the paper itself had poo-pooed my achievement.

One person who understood the psychology of this was my Journalism 101 instructor in college. He was an adjunct who was an actual journalist, and to this day I remember his one rule of thumb – a misspelled name was an instant “F” on an assignment. So you can bet that all of us in the class were particularly meticulous when it came to getting those names right.

And to this day, I’ve always been conscious about getting the names right in my writings. But in conceding that I’m human and make mistakes, there was an instance where I screwed up not one, but three names in an issue of an employee newsletter in one of my previous jobs. I really don’t know how it happened, as I thought I was being careful to get the names right. But in that instance I did screw up. And knowing how important it was to spell the names correctly, I guess I was fortunate not to get fired for that one. Fortunately, I kept my job and made amends by sending apology letters to each person whose name I got wrong (and, of course, I printed a correction in the next newsletter).  Okay, nobody’s perfect, I guess.

But back to my point. What’s in a name? As I ponder this I recalled that naming each of my three boys was an incredibly daunting task. Why? Because I had to get the name just right. I had to give each boy a name that would “fit” him. In fact, my policy about naming my babies was that I would wait at least a day before naming them, so that I could look at them and assess their temperament. It was only after taking this time to “get to know them” that I felt comfortable with issuing a name. In fact, my third boy was going to be either an Allen or a Ben. But after undergoing the get acquainted process, he ultimately ended up being a Sam. And his name fits him to a tee.

And now I have the three boys – Clay, Luke and Sam. Or, to get formal, I have Clayton, Lucas and Samuel. They are three solid, yet relatively basic names. And the last name is Huddleston (not Huddelston, a common misspelling for our seemingly simple surname).

So, for the reporters or writers who may someday write about any of my boys’ major conquests and awesome achievements (and believe me, you will), take note. They are all destined for greatness, so don’t screw up their names. The annals of history would be cheated.

And their mama would be a mighty bit miffed.

Probing for Answers

My husband sees it as a rite of manhood. But I reminded him that we all have asses, so the procedure isn’t just a man-type thing. It can, however, be seen as a rite of passage into middle age. Once you turn 50 you are supposed to have one.  And  I believe the old hubby is mustering all the manly courage he can to get through the next couple of days.

The Noxious Concoction

It’s the dreaded colonoscopy – his first. And the prep begins in just a couple of hours. I’ve already mixed the noxious concoction  (having added his choice of flavor packet – orange). And now it’s chilling in the fridge. The directions say it won’t taste as bad if you drink it cold.  It’s four liters of what appears to be a seemingly harmless solution. But watch out! You wouldn’t want to drink this stuff accidentally, as it will clear you out from stem to stern.

Hubby savored his “last supper” last night – his favorite take-out pizza and a large salad. No supper tonight – he’ll be “clearing out.” Good thing we’ve got the all-night candle going in the powder room.

5:20 p.m. – What a sport. He started a the process a little over an hour ago by taking two Dulcolax, and now he’s started on the concoction. He’s already had his first glass and is ready to pound down another one. Still a long way before he hits three liters. Two glasses down and he’s barely put a dent in that jug. “Can you taste the orange flavor that I put in it?” I inquire.

“It tastes like shit,” he responds. Guess it’s gonna be a long night for hubby. But since he’s going to spend most of it in the bathroom, I guess I’ll be oblivious to it all. (Okay I feel for him, but better him than me.)

One instant silver lining to this: since hubby will be “indisposed” for the rest of the day, he managed to get our oldest son to mow the grass this evening. You have to look at the bright side when it comes to these things.

Then comes tomorrow.  Hubby still has another liter of the potion to drink – I guess to make sure he’s cleared out clean as a whistle. And then at 12:30 in the afternoon, I take him for the procedure.

I tell him that after going through the “prep” of the night before, the “procedure” should be a piece of cake. But maybe it’s just the idea of having his backside probed with a foreign object that doesn’t set well with him. As a woman who has to undergo annual exams that include pap smears, I’m used to being probed, though maybe not as intensely as what a colonoscopy entails.  (Yes, since I haven’t reached that rite of passage yet, my only knowledge of this is derived from watching my loving hubby endure it.)

Seriously, though, such “probing” tests do yield important answers. My hopes are that tomorrow’s procedure will net results that translate into a clean bill of health for my husband. I choose to be optimistic and expect that his test will reveal a completely healthy colon. Or, if there is a polyp or two, that they will be benign or that they will be polyps that can be dealt with right then and there.

The sad reality is that too many people who should have this procedure don’t.  And some of them may be people who desperately need to find out what’s going on with their colon – as there may be pre-cancerous polyps or full-blown cancer lurking within those bowels. Often by the time the cancer is found it has already advanced beyond the colon.

So as much fun as my boys and I are having with their dad’s “situation” this evening, I know that the hassle that he is going through is really an essential part of ascertaining whether his health is up to par. Cancer is a serious thing, and he owes it to himself and to his (very dependent) family to take part in such a preventive measure to ensure that he sticks around a while.

I’ll try to remember this in a few years when it’s my turn to down the Dulcolax, drink the noxious concoction and spend an evening perched upon the porcelain god.

And just to humor him, I’ll let hubby think that this colonoscopy thing is indeed a rite of manhood. It does, after all, take a real man to do the right thing for the benefit of self and family. Yes, that’s right. Even though the process can be crude and unpleasant, there is honor in this.

And it’s his honor that I will be thinking of later on this evening – as his “EUREKA!” moment hits him and he runs for the facilities.

Yes, an honorable man he is. But just allow me a giggle, a snicker or two for humor’s sake.