What's In a Name?

Many alumni of my secondary school, from both my generation and probably a good few preceding it, will distinctly remember a former teacher, one Kathleen Cullen. Seemingly transported from a 1950s reform institution, Miss Cullen materialised in our non-denominational public school in a south Dublin suburb in the 1990s, with the reproachful haughtiness and beady eye of a mother superior.

On our first day in her class, each new cohort of bemused and somewhat fearful students were treated to a practiced monologue that began with the immortal words: “My name is Kathleen Cullen, and I like my name.”

Warming to her theme, she would extol the virtues of what was, by most measures, a quite common name, and decry anyone’s failure to similarly appreciate theirs. Needless to say, we all found this quite risible, and ever after would invariably follow any mention of her name with an unkind imitation of the catchphrase.

Either unaware or unconcerned by our childish jests, Ms. Cullen continued to plough her idiosyncratic furrow. She was an English teacher, and though I was generally attentive in class, I can’t recall anything more of her teaching – besides a game of turning each other’s bags inside out when she wasn’t looking.

So, it is strange that she has been on my mind of late. But, after 38 years on this earth, and over 20 years since I heard her teaching, I think it has finally sunk in – for it is only recently that I too have come to like my name.

I have spent years actively disliking my name and wishing I had another. I thought there to be nothing special or grand or heroic in it. There were no great historical figures; no King Keiths or Sir Keiths, great statesmen or warriors or lovers. There are no songs or poems extolling the virtues of this or that Keith. Other than a few musicians – Richards, Moon – there are few, if any, famous Keiths. It doesn’t even have the benefit of a second syllable. Say it too quickly, and people will probably offer you a tissue.

References in popular culture are even less encouraging, doing the brand more harm than good. Keiths are never heroes, but neither are they ever villains. They’re generally bit-part players, minor inconveniences, too inconsequential to warrant much interest at all.

And if you think I’m exaggerating, allow me to present some evidence:

Our first exhibit is a hopeless job applicant.

“What are you hoping to get out of the job?”

​“In like a month or so…”

“Under sex you wrote: yes…ha ha ha ha ha…”
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Granted I would probably have made these jokes myself in my teens, but is this really the best we Keiths can aspire to? 

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Actually, it gets worse.

This Keith is a crass, egotistical misogynist, with such memorable lines as:

“I’m very familiar with the sexual harassment guidelines…”

“Women love planning parties – it’s in the Bible…”

Need I go on? 

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And perhaps the most merciless of all...

​Am I making a convincing case here? What is the rule in physics – two instances are a line, three make a pattern?

So I hope you can understand how years of being bombarded with all these underwhelming and downright awful namesakes made it hard to find in it any particular virtue. 

Some might contend that a name’s value lies in its meaning and there is definitely some truth in that. How inspiring to be named Saoirse – freedom, how noble to be called Alexandra – defender of mankind, how amazing to be Diana – a Moon Goddess.

But there again alas, Keiths are not blessed with either honour or heroism. It simply means wood. And not even a fancy kind of wood – not strong as teak, or wise as oak – just plain old wood. Or if we take it to signify a place as opposed to a thing, it’s not even a forest – the larger and more impressive habitat – it’s just a wood. Quaint and inconsequential.

It’s a name that I have sometimes in the past – and not entirely frivolously – considered changing. That is until I myself changed.

These past few years I’ve come to remember and reignite my own appreciation for both wood and woods. I now work with wood frequently. I have spent much of the winter chopping firewood from fallen trees. I’ve built much of the furniture in my home. I’ve made a longbow and a number of walking sticks, and carved little trinkets for friends. This interest has also brought me to new experiences: regular volunteer days with the Hometree reforestation charity in Clare, nights camping out in the trees to celebrate and create rituals for the change in seasons, a four-day vision fast in the wilds of Donegal.

Some years ago I walked part of the Ring of Kerry and, at the casual suggestion of a complete stranger, camped out in Lickeen Woods. Spending the day and night alone in that place was a magical experience. I felt inextricably connected to the network of life around me: humble, slow, ancient and mysterious. I sat atop a hill carving a figurine of a fox for my then partner and looked out over the forest below. I even prayed deeply and fervently, for this place’s wellbeing – hoping that somehow, despite the accelerating ravages of climate change, this small oasis could not only sustain itself, but once again thrive.

All of this has led me to value my name far more than I once did. It has grown on me. Or perhaps I have grown into it. In light of all that, you might then understand my distinct pleasure to recently learn that my middle name, Henry, comes from the German Heimerich, meaning Master. So essentially, I am Master of the Wood. And, for the first time in my life, I feel very much aligned with that.

*PS, All of this, I suppose, is a very round about way of explaining my commitment to plant a tree on behalf of any families or couples who book me as a celebrant. For more info, visit Hometree.ie.