“Name, Please.”

Another routine office visit, dentist this time. We’re all having our teeth cleaned, and my third-born falls next on the hygienist’s list of victims. She pops her head into the waiting area: “John…?”

That's Not His Name!

I try not to cringe. After eight years, the routine remains unvaried. Ever flexible, I smile at the hygienist and have my son follow her dutifully down the hall to the second torture chamber on the left. The level of my annoyance rises, probably out of proportion with that of the infraction committed. So, why does it bug the heck out of me every time I hear someone say, “John”? The reason is simple: That's not his name.

Eight years ago, after much deliberation over what to name our third son, my husband and I decided to honor a man who obviously appreciates growing families amidst a prevailing culture that obviously does not. John Paul it would be, then, leaving, of course, room for a middle name. We chose Thomas for a few reasons, perhaps not the least of which is that when we say our son's first and middle initials together, “JPT,” they sound a lot like “JP II.” We really like that. John Paul is our son's name — his first name — and despite attempts to overcome my own pettiness, I have great difficulty acknowledging any address that falls short of “John Paul” or “JP.”

After John Paul's arrival, not an entire day had passed when the first misnomer assaulted my persnickety ears. My oldest older brother (God smote me with four) called to welcome his new nephew. (This particular brother and I have a tradition of opening our phone conversations rather unconventionally. For example, he used to pretend to be our grandmother, but that joke wore thin once she had been dead a few years.) The phone rang. “Hello?” He chose the terse, businesslike approach: “Hello. (Ahem) May I speak to John, please?”

Missing the Point

I usually know it's him, but this time I was caught off guard, probably due to the massive hormone reorientation that my brain was busy monitoring at the time. “I'm sorry, you must have the wrong number,” I responded. “Alison!” came the exasperated reply, and then, pausing between every word and over-articulating every consonant as though I was hard of hearing: “May I speak to John, puhleez?” Emerging from my stupor, I rebutted flatly, “Oh…you mean John Paul.” Truly — just hearing the name “John” meant no more to me than if I had heard the voice on the other end ask for “Bill” or “Frank.” My brother made with the “excusez-moi” bit as I thought to myself: Okay, bro, I realize you're Protestant, but he's named after the pope. I know it's a little unusual, but the man took two names for his papacy in order to solidify the intention of his predecessor, John Paul I, who sought to honor and continue the work of his two immediate predecessors, John XXIII and Paul IV, who brought us Vatican II.

Figuring he'd be lost on all that, I just rolled my eyes and sighed: “It's two… two… two names in one,” quoting the old breath mint ad. My husband and I had given our newest little one both names because we wanted our pope, John Paul II, to be remembered every time our son's name was spoken.

Poor guy — my brother was the first, but certainly not the last confused person to miss that point. It happened again when I enrolled JP in first grade. Never mind that I had listed his entire first name under “first name” on the forms and carefully wrote out “Thomas” for the middle. Apparently the school (or its computer system) viewed the second part of his first name as optional. With no concern or correction from our son, “John” appeared on his nametag, his desk label, and numerous worksheets. Nonetheless, all this visual stimuli failed to readjust my mindset. I would get calls from parents: “My son is in John's class and we're having a birthday party…” Wait a minute — Who? I don't know any John… Who did you say you are?

Nothing Abbreviated About This Pope!

I don't believe I ever actually said those words aloud, but that was the usual mental recalibrating I underwent as I eventually figured out they were referring to my son John Paul. And these good folks aren't alone, either. Every doctor and dental visit to this day has proceeded in the same manner. I register his name carefully and correctly on all the forms, only to hear the stingingly familiar “John…” when his turn comes. I even relented a little, deviating from his namesake, a bit, and began eliding the two parts thus — “JohnPaul” — on the forms. That didn't work either (in fact just now my computer put one of those red squiggly lines beneath the elided name). For some reason, all persist in renaming our son “John.”

This natural tendency to abbreviate is understandable; I often do it myself. My oldest son Stephen, we sometimes call Steve — no problem there. And little Michael is sometimes just “Mike.” However, these amended nomenclatures clearly reflect their full names. How is anyone to know that “John” stands for “John Paul” as in “Pope John Paul II?” This needless amputation of our son's name cancels out the entire significance of his name, a fact I'm certain the pope himself would appreciate. Come to think of it, I wonder if any of the hospital staff has popped a head through the door to his room and called out, “John…?”

God bless our Holy Father, and God bless all the little John Pauls scampering about right now, reminding the world of a great pope and a great man. Get well, Papa.

© Copyright 2005 Catholic Exchange

Alison Kelly entered the Catholic Church as a convert in 1991. She wrote the music and lyrics for the CD single Rachel for post-abortive women (published by St. Gabriel Media). She and her husband, Patrick, live with their four sons in Virginia.