In 2020, two residents of the US state of California decided to name their child X Æ A-XII. On Twitter, the two new parents (Grimes and Elon Musk) disagreed over the ‘pronunciation’ of this name. One stated that the Æ was pronounced ‘ai’. The other said it was pronounced ‘ash’.
One of the many things that fascinates me about this stunt of a name is how both parents’ interpretations of their chosen name by are arguably wrong. The pronunciation of ‘æ’ as ‘ai’ is peculiar. I think this mistakes æ, a letter used in Old English and other Germanic languages, with the digraph ae from Latin. The digraph ae is roughly pronounced ‘aye’ in that context, which might match up with what Grimes called ‘ai’ (though I’m not sure, which is why we have a phonetic alphabet).
What’s confusing is that the letter Æ originated as an aesthetically pleasing way of mashing a and e together in Latin texts. Arguably, therefore, Grimes’ interpretation is perfectly valid as long as she’s thinking like an Ancient or Early Modern scribe or typesetter. Which I think is reasonable.
The other interpretation is also possibly wrong. This is to ‘pronounce’ Æ as ‘ash’. This is correct in that that’s the name we give the letter. But we’re forgetting that this is a letter within a word: it’s not an acronym! This pronunciation (Musk’s) treats the word as a collection of symbols stuffed together. It slips the mask rather that the name might not be entirely serious: that it’s a whimsical or deliberately abstruse combination of symbols.
So, what is young X Æ A-XII going to do about all this? Are they going to be bullied? Or is the name so obscure that it doesn’t even lend itself to mockery? What will X Æ A-XII say at parties? Will X Æ A-XII ever be able to escape the fact that their name is predicated on a prank from 2020? The name has already faded into obscurity by comparison to Musk’s Twitter antics (now X. Note the similarity). That obscurity lends a certain tiredness to what is now the four year old’s appellation.
What would you do in X Æ A-XII’s situation, as you come into self awareness and the crushing realisation that your title is a tech bro equivalent of the Ministry of Silly Walks? I know what I would do. I would pick a conventional name that has a passing resemblance to the faulty one I was given: I’d call myself Ash. The reason for this is that 1) X Æ A-XII is a historical event, however dumb, and I would be foolish and iconoclastic to sweep that away; 2) there is something distasteful to me at least about having too much agency in naming myself. Having to pick the correct colour of t shirt at the beginning of each day is bad enough.
Are given names just a chance to project parents’ tastes and peculiarities on entirely different being with whom they share genetic information? Absolutely. Is that chance taken up? For much of recorded history, apparently not. I am a medievalist, and I am continually struck by the epic lack of imagination of medieval parents. The men, for example, are absolutely always called William or John in medieval England, for example. The Old Testament, though obviously part of the medieval Christian canon, was so rarely racked for names. Hence we barely have any Daniels or Moseses in that part of the world.
Why is this the case? Because, I think, the idea of parental expression using names is a recent one. Medieval attitudes to names are *all* about repetition. You are given a name; this name is after a saint; you will devote yourself and your disposable income to the veneration of that saint who shared your name. The replication of the thing is what gives it power. The sharing of a few letters creates a spooky connection that will help you in your life, in matters secular and divine.
In some ways X Æ A-XII is the antithesis of the medieval John or William (Tom, Dick or Harry). X Æ A-XII is the high watermark of parental choice indulged to absurdity. The medieval names are a repudiation of choice. Indeed, names have been subject to limitation and control by church authorities, e.g. between 1917-1983 when Catholic parents were required to name their children after saints or obviously Christian concepts. Thus, bear witness to some interesting historical facts.
On the other hand, names don’t really tell us much about who a person will turn out to be. This is merciful. It’s just as likely that someone with a florid name like Decimus or X Æ A-XII turns out to be extravagant or drab. Just like memorials to the dead tell us about the living (and are for the living), names tell us about the parents. It would be more accurate to say though that names principally tell us about the parents. In todays world of ‘parental expression’, there is enough choice of names to use them as an identifier of cultural capital that will most likely accrue to the offspring too.
A child called Tarquin has parents of a certain type: cultured enough to think of the name but not cultured enough to think about what Tarquin was most famous for. Similarly, names plucked from the more obscure reaches of the Old Testament tend to have a religiosity to them, or indicate that someone buys wine in XXXL quantities. These facts about the parents (not about the names themselves) will likely influence the children to a greater or lesser extent.
Names encompass both frivolity and the marks of societal class. For most of us, I think they are more on the frivolous side. But it’s fortunate that one can change one’s name at will… Or not.
A largely irrelevant nature shot from recent travels.
Glad that Methuselah got a shout out
As your parent I am a little concerned !