STICKS … and STONES
We all know that old saying – when our ears were burning – the stock response was ‘Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me’. I recall repeating it at the time, took a bit of courage, though. Perhaps that was how it worked!
The recent epidemic of name calling, which almost became an art form in the weeks leading up to a certain election, got me thinking. What’s in a name? And, more to the point, what is a name?
We all have a name; it defines us or describes us. I was born a ‘Porter’, though I’ve never been one, neither was my dad or grandad. My maternal poppa was a ‘Bishop’, though he wasn’t. Your neighbour might be a Smith, a King, a Shepherd or a Butler. Nowadays, probably not.
Are you nicknamed for how you look? Fatso, skinny, porky, egghead, ‘ginga’ – more fashionable than being a fiery redhead. If you’re six feet tall, you might get ‘Shorty’. Intellectual prowess (more or less) inspires brainbox, smart-arse, or drongo. Many more. A reputation may be a Good Thing, or maybe not. It takes effort to ‘make a name for yourself’ and the result rests entirely on you.
So … an insult or a compliment? When you think about it, there’s much more to the names we use.
It’s easy to recall those less than favourable names we’re all guilty of using. There seems to be a great number starting with the letter ‘d’ for some reason. Dog, dragon, dunce, dilbrain, dork, dingbat, donkey, dope, dickhead … dear me! One’s wits can be called into question: there’s dimwit, halfwit and (dare I mention) f***wit? When you’re done denigrating, redeem yourself (and that unfortunate ‘d’) with terms of endearment. Darling, dearest, or dove perhaps. Calling someone a ‘dag’ defines you as Antipodean; a peculiar form of compliment which everybody presumes relates to the rattly bits on a sheep’s backside. Not so; it’s an early English word for an eccentric person. Nowadays, it seems, eccentric is OK. Whew!
Prince Henry, the son of King Henry IV, in Shakespeare’s play of that name; seemed to be a master of insult. And Falstaff bore the brunt of this contumely, but all in good humour: ‘that trunk of humours, that bolting-hutch of beastliness, that swollen parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, … that reverend vice, that grey iniquity ..’ Very descriptive!
Of course, Will could pay a compliment too; and names made things messy on occasions. Here’s Juliet in a quandary: ‘O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name; or if thou wilt not … I’ll no longer be a Capulet.’ Soon after, she urges her hapless beau to man up: ‘Oh be some other name! What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ I’ll go along with that.
And finally, because it’s near to year’s end, compliments of the season to all.
