Naming the Boy
We could have named him Vincent. Vin loves his sisters, roasts beets with his dad in the fall. He has a thing for red foods, actually. Red licorice, barbecue chips, cherry pie and kidney beans. Vinny Vincenzo stores rocks and acorns under his bed, counts out seven letters on his fingers. “Mom, I have two N’s!” St. Vincent, Lombardi party, Vince the prince.
He could have been a boy named Cary. A tough cookie, a sweet surprise of a guy. Charming and classy but condemned to a lifetime of correcting people. Leo was out, the name his older sister was set to be had she been a boy. Energetically speaking, it felt like Leo still belonged to her, had the coin flipped the other way. Cassius, Dashiell, Otto, Bruno, Rocky, Solomon. Please. Who did we think we were?
There were the short and sweets: Vic, Frank, Lou, Hal. Cormac stuck for a while, Malcolm too. Both an off ramp to Mac for short. Dust off the old Bobby Darin 45 I had as a kid. An opportunity to tell the story of Macheath to a new generation. Oh the shark, babe. Mac bites. Mac breaks hearts. Mac attack.
Roman. Now that’s a name, more like a crown. My dear Rome, Romy. A giant house to grow into, a name with space meant for unfurling. Roman contains any number of personalities, interests, futures. People are enamored of Roman. Rome sticks around, has a long and charmed life. But he’s also in the principal’s office a lot. We nod again at the phrase “impulse control.” One, two, three teacher conferences. Rome, come on, buddy. I know it’s hard, but you have to try.
I vomited exactly once in that first trimester. We had to pause an episode of Mad Men, take care of business and then get back to it. I lobbied for Roger during this brief period, even though Roger Sterling was struggling to remain relevant at the firm at that point. A Roger bounces back, astounds people. A puppy of a boy, thick chocolate hair to tousle. Roger makes people change their opinion of Rogers. “Oh man, I went to high school with a great Roger. He was hilarious.” Roger, dodger. Message received. Roger that.

Felix, Otis, Gray, Graham, Kieran, George, Micah, Maceo, Henry. We tried them all on for a while. Played dress-up with all these versions of our son. Each one the same bones of the recipe, but the final batch would be slightly different. What power in naming. The audacity to say – here, this is yours now. This is who we think you are. Now it’s your job to fill it up or shrink under the weight. This was our best guess at the time. Now show us who you are.
In the end he was Paul. A round orb of a name. But razor-sharp, deceptively: strong at the ends, two poles with good boundaries. Say it three ways: au, awe, aww. He keeps you at arm’s length, uses his hands to erect a chain-link fence. But if you can get past the doorman – soft center, a warm egg. Paulie knows how to deliver a punch, get in and out before you know what hit you. A hunk of dry bread caught in your throat. Leaves you bent over and coughing.
A quick religious google results in 14 LESSONS PAUL TEACHES US IN ACTS. The internet is always there yelling at you, ready to boil it down to a listicle: Paul’s spirit was unconquerable. Paul did not work alone. He understood the need for a team. Paul knew his own limitations. Paul believed that the world is temporal. Paul showed us how to engage hostility. Paul had a living hope.
And of course, the laymen: George, Rudd, Pierce, McCartney, Newman. Collect them all. I once sat a table over from Paul Sorvino in a little Italian restaurant off Broadway. Back when the name meant nothing to me, when I was dumb to the future. Fast forward: for his whole life plus a decade thereafter we’d live under the shadow of a Paul Bunyan statue standing guard at the entrance of our neighborhood. Over 30-feet tall, I’d make a point to go stand under him for a few minutes on my walks. Always in his shadow, always craning my neck. Impossible to make eye contact. That didn’t mean I didn’t try. Sometimes hot with anger, I’d give him a little kick, wish for one good swing with a hammer. Other times I was the baby. Pat his leg, sit on his boot. Look at me. Stop facing north, put down your axe. Why did you leave? I could never quite get the right angle to take him in all at once.

On the opposite corner of the Paul Bunyan statue are four large, blue hooves. There is no Babe the Blue Ox statue, only his footprints. It’s up to you to fill in his rough outline. Maybe I’ve missed it this whole time. Maybe it’s gesturing at loss. An effigy to his ghost. A man without his loyal companion.
Later, I’ll try for girl’s name that shares the same guts. Maude, Laurel, Maura, Claudia. Twin him with her core, a fusion that lives and breathes on. If I could just nest the doll of him in a newer, bigger doll. Pauline, Paula, Paulette are all too pathetic. What a curse, a pitiful thing for a parent to do to the next in line. No, we have to do it all over again. Hit the reset and reboot back to factory settings. Try again with the same, stupid optimism. Act like life goes on, living things want to keep living. There are no ghosts here, little baby. You’re safe.
Make no mistake, it is not only sharp things that do harm. It is not all hagiography. Paul can be a bullet or a grenade, a fistful of rat poison pellets. You only see the soft underbelly when he allows it. Otherwise, Paul is the bomb and the detonator. The traction and the distraction. He is the star of the show, capable of smoke, light and fireworks. Barely there. Just enough time for a second line to appear, string enough weeks together to get a feel for his movements, practice saying little brother, big sister.
It gets harder and harder to access the days and weeks before, when I was carrying the name around with a boy oxygenating his blood and following a growth chart. There was no way to paint the composite; he was going to reveal himself to us. If Paul is the poison, I would go back. I swear to god, I’d choose something else. There was nothing about his nominative determinism that spelled death. It was just the only one that rose to the top, the lone contender in a silent room. In this lifetime, we will never know. The void is the shape. His absence is the dominant trait that eclipses all potential others. The rest is just best guesses and wistful daydreams.
Paul is a phantom. The show is a disappearing act. And I am dumbfounded and frozen. Holding a worthless ticket, the finale in an empty theater that’s been decimated. He is long gone, barely a whisper of an appearance before sneaking out the stage door. Stride confident, blocks away at a good clip before we can even begin to comprehend what remains.
Cover photo by Axel Ruffini on Unsplash