Call Me Ishmael

She called me Ishmael. It is a hell-of-a moniker to slap on a kid. Believe it or not, my mother, an avid reader of the classics, was reading Herman Melville’s Moby Dick when her water broke and she went into labor with me. I guess she decided it would be a great remembrance of the occasion when she named me after the narrator of the story. As I grew, I learned Ishmael was a perceptive and philosophical character. As a young man, I wondered if his characteristics were passed on to me because my mother was reading about him while she was pregnant. I know it seems implausible, but who knows? I have read that babies in the womb have shown increased brain activity when exposed to music. Why not reading?

Anyway, my life as a kid and even into my teen years was not easy having such an odd name. I wonder if parents ever think about the ramifications a child can suffer when given a name that is out of the ordinary. Well, let me tell you, from personal experience, Ishmael was not an easy name to live with. As you might guess, I was quickly referred to as Ishie-Fishy on the block and later in school. However, as I matured, I got used to having an unusual name. I even liked it because it made me memorable. Rarely was I or my name forgotten by friends or even distant acquaintances. Everyone remembered me. So though my younger years were sometime rough, in my later years I came to value the name my mother gave me. And I am pleased that she called me Ishmael.