Lately I’ve found myself thinking about my name.

Not because I’m planning on changing it. At this point in life that would create far more paperwork than I have the patience for. But I’ve been thinking about names and the curious relationship we have with them.

The truth of the matter is I’ve never particularly liked Donald, my formal name. As my father’s namesake, I inherited it honestly enough and, like many things handed to us in life, I simply accepted it. Along the way there have been plenty of nicknames — Ferg, Fergy, Ferg The Berg, Don, and among close childhood friends who called me, Donnie.

Funny how names can carry different feelings with them.

Don has always served as my proper name. It’s what Abby calls me and I like hearing it from her. Still, it has always felt a little formal to me, like wearing a sport coat when a sweatshirt would do just fine.

Ferg never quite fit either. That one carries associations and memories that belong to another chapter of my life.
Funny how a nickname can pick up emotional baggage and drag it around behind it.

The one that always felt different was Donnie.

Donnie felt familiar. Family. Neighborhood. Childhood friends yelling from across the street.

“Hey Donnie!”

No explanation needed.

Recently I started wondering if there was something more behind my preference. Maybe names don’t just tell people who we are. Maybe they tell people how we wish to be approached.

There is a difference between saying “Let’s talk” and “Let’s have a chat.”

Same destination.

Different invitation.

One feels like sitting in the principal’s office.

The other feels like sitting together on the sofa.

I started thinking maybe Donnie wasn’t a smaller version of Donald at all. Maybe it was more of a welcome mat than a name.

Then I remembered my Confirmation.

For those unfamiliar with that Catholic tradition, when receiving Confirmation you choose a Confirmation name — often the name of a saint or someone you hope will guide you through your journey of faith….a direct line to heaven versus a party line.

When I was somewhere around seven or ten years old and asked to choose mine, I immediately selected Romeo.

Yes… Romeo.

Why, because at the time, I saw myself as something of a ladies man.

I know. Try to contain yourselves.

My mother, however, had another idea. She suggested …..and by suggested I mean “Directed” ….that I choose the name Emmett after her deceased older brother.

I resisted with all the determination a young boy could summon. I knew names had a way of sticking around and I was fairly certain that Emmett wasn’t exactly setting me up for a future as the neighborhood Romeo.

But eventually I gave in.

Truthfully, I offered it as a gift to my mother. Looking back, I knew even then the sacrifices she had made for me and for our family. It was a small thing in return, though it felt like swallowing a bitter pill at the time.

Years later I found myself reading Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet and came upon Juliet’s words:

“What’s in a name?”

She argued that names are merely labels. Romeo would still be the same person no matter what he was called.

Somewhere in those words I finally made peace with the whole thing.

I realized poor Uncle Emmett had been buried deeply within Donald Joseph Emmett Ferguson all those years, tucked away where he wasn’t likely to surface unexpectedly.

And Romeo?

Romeo represented a boy with a dream of being a ladies man.

Time has a funny way of introducing reality to fantasy. But maybe that isn’t such a bad thing.

“So, what’s in your name?”

To the people who knew you before titles, responsibilities and life had a chance to introduce itself.

Before husband, father, employee, Marine, police officer, manager… before all the roles arrived.

What name do they call out?

Because lately I’ve begun to think that names aren’t only about who we are.

Maybe they’re about the way we open the door to others.

And if someone such as me introduces themselves as “Donnie”…

Maybe they’re quietly saying:

“Come in, give us a hug.”