“Papers, Please”

                                                           “Papers, Please”

                                                          by Marco M. Pardi

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“What signifies knowing the Names, if you know not the Natures of Things.”  Benjamin Franklin. (1706-1790) Poor Richard’s Almanack, November 1750.

Over the years several stray dogs have come to my house.  My wife says it’s because of how I smell.  Regardless,  I always go outside and sit down where the dog can see me.  I look for signs of illness or aggression but have yet to see either.  Sooner or later the dog comes to me, out of need or just curiosity.  I have yet to find one with a collar, much less a name tag.  I live in the American southeast and such things are just not “manly”.  For that matter, I’ve not yet seen a neutered male dog.  Of course, once the connection has been made I ask the dog his or her name.  No response yet, but I keep trying. 

Throughout my life I have, for one reason or another, been in circumstances where I encountered wild and not-so-wild non- human animals.  In every case I knew the common name for members of the species.  In some cases I knew the taxonomic name established in the binomial nomenclature.  Somewhere along the line it occurred to me that I never once wondered if that cobra answered to a name, or that tiger, whose long, low growl suggested I could fit in one of its lungs.   Of course, being in the wild, they are free.  However, recent studies of dolphins and whales strongly suggest they have “names” for each other, if not for themselves.  Analysis of utterances, especially within whale pods, strongly supports the conclusion that whale mothers emit a unique, short utterance to their newborn calf which is picked up by other pod members and used solely toward that calf.  The calf learns to respond to that utterance while at the same time developing the full range of utterances characteristic of that pod – except that it does not replicate the unique sound applied to itself.  Thus, it appears that this utterance is an identifier, a name.

Reading about this brought me back to my early years in American schools.  I sat in classes, all male at first but coed later,  in which I, in contrast to the several Johns, James, Williams, and Roberts, had a unique identifier; through all my years of schooling I never encountered another Marco.  Indeed, I often saw teachers having to include the first letter of the boy’s last name in order to preclude a storm of responses from the others: John S.,  William B., and etc.  There were even cases where that was not enough, the full name had to be used.  In my case the teacher never had to extend to the first initial of my last name.  In fact, no one else had either my first or my last name.

I wondered what it must be like to have the same name as someone else.  What must it be like to grow up hearing, “No, the other one”?  A twist on this came in the form of my early difficulty in speaking my own name.  Since I never had reason to enunciate the word Marco – or Pardi, except in rare moments when asked my name,  I felt I had difficulty in pronouncing it.  Shaping the sound seemed odd.  In fact, my father, a pedantic practitioner of precise and exact enunciation in several languages, took me to task for my American rolling of the r’s in my name instead of the Italian trilling of the r’s.  I did not make that mistake again.

And so the phenomenon of naming a person became interesting.  Studying Anthropology I read of cultures that waited for some distinguishing characteristic to appear in the child before a name, based on that characteristic, was applied.  And, there were the cultures in which the name of a deceased person died with him, never to be used again.  In traditional Italian culture secondary names – “middle” names were often a declaration of fealty to some revered religious figure.  It was not uncommon for a man to have the name Maria somewhere in his collection, but no one thought there had been a gender mix-up.  I was also always told that Italian culture did not practice “Junior”, the Third, etc.  I can imagine kids directly named after their fathers and more remote predecessors must feel pressure along with personal anonymity.  For too long in school I was my brother’s “little brother.”

Through school and the military I strongly discouraged anyone who tried to Americanize my name;  Marc, Mark were proper names in themselves, but not my name.  Further, they would strip my heritage.  Sometimes people questioned my name, with me explaining I was born in Italy and am Italian.  Often they said, “You don’t look Italian.”  Rather than cite my British grandmothers, which would simply have condoned their ignorance, I usually replied, “You’ve never been to Italy.”  

When my daughter was born I named her Sophia, for the Greek concept wisdom.  She has far exceeded what I had envisioned.  Yet, there were people who thought I named her for Sophia Loren, and even told her she would have to develop large breasts to not disappoint me.  How do stupid people get born?  How do they survive so long?

After accepting a request to transfer into a different Division within Centers for Disease Control I presented myself in the Administrative Office for in-clearance.  During GOP administrations CDC was always starved for funds; “public health” sounds so Democratic.  So I should not have been surprised when the Administrative Assistant checked my security badge, leaped to her feet and shouted to the office, “Our money troubles are over!  Our Mafia connection is here!”  I was stunned.  I truly did not know what to say.  So, I shot her.  (Note: The Division Director heard her outcry and issued her a Letter of Reprimand that day.)

Other venues provided opportunities to consider the human condition.  When an out of town couple came for a visit I decided to take them to a restaurant with which I was familiar.  I had long ago learned to not give my last name to any hostess when checking in, but my wife had slipped and done so at this restaurant before.  The hostess was a rather fetching young girl.  Looking into her eyes gave one an unobstructed view to the rear of her cranium; the pressure folds in her interior occiput were quite charming.  As expected, she called us to our table with a tittering “Party, party of two!”  So I was not averse to turning the tables, as it were, when we entered with our guests. 

Clearly not remembering us, she asked for the name under which to place us.  I responded by spelling out the name – Secks.  My guests almost gave away the game when they doubled over.  Nonetheless, we were eventually called to our seats with a loud “Secks party of four!”  I was sure I heard chairs pushed back as middle-aged husbands craned for a view and sour wives reconsidered their steak knives.

Even in my 70’s I still encounter people who respond to my introduction with, “Oh, like Marco Polo, eh?”  A flat affect usually suffices, but sometimes I’m pressed to respond with, “I think I was 8 when I first heard that.”

Returning for a moment to non-humans, I adopted a dog whose philosophical demeanor inspired me to name him Plato (later, the Vet said it was only worms).  When checking him in for his first Vet visit, I gave the receptionist his name.  She giggled and said, “Play dough, what a cute name!”  I said, “No.  Plato, as in the Greek philosopher.”  Her marvelously blank gaze informed me that I must spell it for her.

Returning to college teaching in the age of the internet,  I advised students that if they “Googled” me (and who doesn’t?) they should enter Marco M. Pardi in the search box.  Two other Marco Pardi names have surfaced on the net, one a high powered business executive and the other a former Professor of Mathematics at Stanford University.  The Professor moved back to Rome (Italy),  where I looked him up when I was there in the 1990’s.  It would be interesting to have conversations with them about their name experiences here in the U.S.  But then, I would guess many others have had their share as well.