What's in a Name?

Dear Reader, pleased to meet you. My name is A. Young-Irving, at least, that is how readers of my debut novel, HEIST OF THE OLYMPIANS, will get to know me. Why no first name, you might ask? Allow me to explain:

My mother, despite having grown up in small-town South Africa and the dunes of Namibia, has had a lifelong curiosity for world history and geography. During her graduate studies, she became so infatuated with the names of the Roman Papal states, Parma, Modena, and Toscana, that she briefly considered naming her firstborn (moi!) accordingly. To her, it sounded exotic and worldly, as if she had the precognition that her daughter would spend most of her adult life living abroad. Not sure what or who (Dad?) changed her mind, but to this day I am relieved that my name is not Parma, Mods, or Tossie.

The name I was ultimately blessed with at birth (or cursed with, if you bear with me) was as happenstance as it was destiny. While my mom was counting down to my due date, my grandmother, Anna Nel, sat at her desk one morning, signing her name on a check as “A. Nel.” She loved the way it sounded when she blended the two together and my very pregnant mom was equally inspired, et voilà ... my birth name, "Anél," was born days before me. To spice it up a little, Mom added a French accent over the "e" but, sadly, the accent aigu (that cheeky little slash that slants from left to right, aiming upwards like Cupid’s arrow) has no real purpose on my name other than confusing the hell out of people. As it is written, my name should technically be pronounced with a sonic slide at the end. Think "canapé" or "soufflé." Instead, the intended pronunciation is “Ah-nelle, like Chanel without the 'Shhh'" as I often find myself explaining. In South Africa, no one ever questioned the name. It was rare, but not unheard of. The daughter of an Arnold Nelson, for example, could be an "Anel" or the granddaughter of a Lena, perhaps. (Spelled backward, it reads "Anel.") There was even another Anél in my first-grade class (but she moved away rather abruptly, which I had always considered suspicious ...) Still, for the duration of my childhood in South Africa and the two years I lived in Amsterdam, my name was a non-issue.

Until I moved to the United States.

Before I tell you why my first name has been a burden in the USA, let me stress that I am infinitely proud of it, blessed with the heritage of maternal monikers. I'll preface my dilemma with the case of a Dutch acquaintance of ours, Kok (last name omitted for his dignity). In the Netherlands, where he was born, the name Kok (pronounced like "cork" without the "r") is derivative of the Dutch word for cook/chef and hails from an era when men took their monikers from their craft. Thus, Mr. Schoenmaker was the town cobbler and Mr. Fokker ... was the local dog breeder, of course. What were you thinking of? Good thing ol’ Fokker did not move to the USA.

Unlike our friend, Kok.

When Kok announced his job transfer to New York, we advised him to change his name to anything else, something innocuous like Joe, or Sam. Because Americans, with their tendency to pull their vowels like sticky taffy, would have inevitably called him “Cock.” Which is not good in the US of A where a male chicken is commonly referred to as a rooster. No sirree, Bob. Speaking of which ... in America, a Robert is almost always called “Bob,” a Richard “Dick,” a John "Jack", or a Charles “Chuck,” which presented a unique dilemma when naming our own son. The plan was to honor both his grandfathers, Richard and Edward, and we were set to ink those into perpetuity as his first and middle names when we experienced the forehead-smacking realization that our son would have been burdened with the nickname "Dick Ed." Lesson learned? Parents, if your last name is Hunt, do not name your son Michael. You can thank me later.

Me, on the other hand …

After years of hearing my name butchered in every doctor's office or coffee shop where the barista would hoist my cappuccino aloft and loudly announce, “Anal? Hot order for Anal!” I still have not made peace with it. No sentient being wants their name evoking a body part non grata. You would think that the French accent on the 'e' would make a difference. It does not. Every time I type my name to register or pay online, it pings back the message "Unauthorized character," forcing me to delete the poor e-aigu that tries so hard to put a little distance between me and a very dark place. And it doesn’t end there. I receive bills and letters, and new credit cards addressed to (and imprinted with) the dreaded "Anal," but also "Ane'l" or "Anêl" as my own sister (gasp!) recently spelled it in a message. Right idea, wrong diacritics, people! Oh, and not to forget "Ahel," which never fails to elicit an “Ah, hell, here we go again!” from me.

A rose by any other name would smell ... well, much sweeter, actually.

One mispronunciation I can live with is when I'm erroneously called "Angel". It certainly has a much nicer ring to it, albeit a common male Latino name here in Los Angeles. So, for the last 20 years or so, I’ve let that one slide. Call me Angel and I will not correct you. I’ve even started using the moniker when ordering coffee or making hotel bookings. Because an "Angel" is a celestial being that evokes all things heavenly, no? Being greeted with a jovial, “Good morning, Angel!” always makes me feel like one of Charlie’s Angels instead of a puckered asterisk. And I can start my day on a positive note.

For a hot second, I considered the pen name, Angel, for my novel. But then one of my lead protagonists had the audacity to demand the name for herself and I could not refuse. To say that I put a lot of consideration into naming my team of four protagonists is an understatement. What’s in a name, you ask? Well, dear reader, just about everything that Pandora released when she opened that proverbial box: dignity, honor, strength, flaws … a name can make or break a character. My lead protagonist deserved the name “Angel,” in all its manifestations. She is a leader, fiercely protective of those she loves, and not afraid to take risks. She becomes a Guardian Angel in more ways than one. See what I did there?

The other three protagonists deserved no less thought and intent. Shivonne got her Irish moniker when she sprang from my imagination (fully formed, like her alter-ego, Aphrodite, did from Zeus's head) as a pale, copper-haired Irish beauty with a melodic, Gaelic lilt. The fact that her name comes front-loaded with the same dubious pronunciation frustration (the authentic, tongue-twisting "Siobhan") was no accident. Shivonne is a victim in my novel, soft-spoken, and timid, yet her husband calls her "Shiv." If you love prison movies, like me, you'll know a shiv as a rudimentary, dangerous weapon crafted from the handle of a toothbrush, filed into a spike. To maim with; to kill with.

Protagonist number three, Lorelei, is an earth-mama who hails from the woods of Nova Scotia. She was born Lauren Ann, which (once you get to know my Lorelei) you'll agree would have hung like a weighted potato sack on the ethereal and empathetic creature she is. So, she chose to change her name to Lorelei and only later learned its ironic origin: of pain and heartache, of a nymph who had flung herself to her death from a rock. The symbolism of that name, like the myth, reverberates through much of Lorelei’s story.

And finally, I named my fourth protagonist Luke. Simple, forthright, and easy. What could be hidden under the layers of a Luke, you might ask? Well, dear reader, how many layers does an onion have? Luke is a 30-year-old, gay graduate student steeped in the PTSD of childhood trauma and gay conversion "therapy." His name came to me in a dream (as did much of my story) before I had any idea where it would lead me in terms of symbolism. At first, I thought of the Archangel Luke ... but I already had an Angel, didn't I? A quick Google search for references to "Luke" in the Bible delivered upon me Luke 3:22, which mentions a "son" with whom the parents are "well-pleased." That sealed the deal for me; naming this small-town, closeted boy "Luke" was the epitome of irony, the rebellious thing to do. Because Luke would turn out to be the opposite of a "well-pleasing son" to his conservative, Bible-thumping parents. The double-edged symbolism and holier-than-thou hypocrisy of his name set him on a trajectory right from the start.

Early on in my novel, these four tormented characters assign each other Greek-hero alter-egos as a much-needed boost of courage to pull off a daunting art heist. (They’re museum docents, remember? And museum nerds live and breathe their Greek Mythology.) Angel becomes Athena, for her wisdom and strategy. Shivonne recalls Persephone (the unfortunate goddess abducted by Hades into the Underworld). Lorelei embodies Aphrodite (the lover, but also the schemer), and Luke steps into the alter-ego of Hermes (the flight-footed god of thieves and mischief). Together, the motley crew of pseudo-Olympians embarks on a daunting task unfit for mere mortals. To me, a name is never just a name. It is a Patronus, a blessing or a curse, loaded with insight. A premonition, in many ways. You'll have to read HEIST OF THE OLYMPIANS to see what I mean.

This brings me back to where I started: my chosen pen name, "A. Young-Irving." It's a nom de plume that I hope will instill my novel with a sliver of mystery and anonymity, as it did for J.K. Rowling or C.S. Lewis. As an added bonus, my initials spell “A.Y.I," which, when shouted exuberantly at the full moon, sounds exactly like a fierce Amazonian war cry:

“Ayiiiiiiiiiii!”

And that, dear reader, I can live with … and live up to.

THE END