Maybe (Maybe Not) Read Online Free Page B

games.
    “Daddy.” Children.
    “Ensign Fulghum.” As a navy chaplain trainee.
    “The Reverend Mr. Fulghum.” After ordination.
    “Uncle Bob.” By my art students.
    “Ano Ne.”
Second wife. (Japanese familiar for “Hey, you.”)
    “Zulu Delta Ground.” Radio code name when I was ground crew at a glider contest.
    “Captain Kindergarten.” After the book, by acquaintances.
    “Dr. Feelgood.” How the critics refer to me sometimes.
    “Dear.” As in “Dear Mr. Fulghum.” Also by my wife, on tense days, as in “Are you going to walk through here again with muddy feet,
dear?”
    “Granddaddy” and “Poppa.” By Sarah, Max, and Brie.
    “Robert-Not-Bob.” What I used to tell people my name was, but it never worked. They’d just say, “Well, sure, Bob, whatever you want.”
    There are even more—about thirty names in all, but that’s enough to make the point. All of these are names given me by other people. But not names I would have given myself. My name is not mine, it’s theirs. It’s a series of costumes put on my life by other people.
    I remember reading in some anthropology book about cultures in which your original name is given you by your family until you are old enough to choose a name for yourself. I would have liked that.
    In high school, I wanted to be called “Doak” or “Buck” or “Ace.”
    Later, when I was in seminary in Berkeley, I went to foreign movies and always stayed for the credits at the end to see if I could find some elegant, mysterious, strong name from another country that I could use. “Miloslav” or “Czabt” or “Jean-Pierre.”
    In the sixties, when the hippies reached for more expressive names and I considered myself at least semi-hip, I briefly considered “Nigel Seven Morningstar” as a name tag connecting me to the Age of Aquarius.
    But now I guess it’s too late or too much trouble. The name is not that important anymore—it’s the tone that counts. I feel like an old dog I know. He will come to any name you call him, just so long as your demeanor carries with it the promise of affection or food.
    An actor I met in Roanoke, Virginia, solved a name problem for me. He’s my age and has grandchildren. We talked about the hidden disappointment of names that get stuck on you when your children have children. This happens at a time when you have reached seniority in the ranks. You feel experienced and wise. Some respect is due. You deserve it. And then some slobbering little bundle of joy who can’t speak the language starts calling you “Boppa” or “Nungnung” or “Moomaw.” And everybody thinks it’s so damned cute. Not only does the child call you that, but everybody else in the family starts calling you that. There’s nothing you can do about it. You feel for sure like the old family dog.
    How can you have a dignified role in the life of the family when everybody thinks of you as good old “Moomaw” or “Gandy Bippy”?
    But this guy I met in Roanoke beat the system.
    Actually, his wife had the idea.
    Her name was plain old “Mary.” She hated it all her life. She saw this “Gandy Bippy” thing coming and was determined to head it off. When her first grandchild reached the age of semiconscious intelligence, she carefully explained to the child that Grandmother was to be called “Delilah” and nothing else. “Delilah”—after that sexpot in the Bible who did a number on old Samson.
    Her husband didn’t much care to be called “Samson,” but since he had been “Fred” all his life and didn’t much care for that either, he opted for the German nickname “Fritz.” He’s not German, but “Fritz” had a certain lively, foreign sound.
    It took the family a while to get used to the fact that Granny and Grandpa were usually unavailable for child-care duty. However, Delilah and Fritz would be glad to take the children to the zoo or anywhere else, anytime, just call their names.

P LACE OF BIRTH:____________________
    How many