An essay on Neo-Eugenio

Neno is coming back today. We're going to watch Little Women. Before he left he mentioned that Little Women was set to arrrive on Saturday. It was a passive aggresive hint that I watch it while he's away. Because I like to win in that category, I saved it for his return. Among other really important matters, writing this essay is what I did with my time instead. 

I like the idea of naming children, but I punctuate that thought with my belief that we’re all more or less the same. We might as well all be Dick and Janes -- or Joses and Marias. Naming a kid after a piece of fruit or a vibrant color is not the antidote to an average life. My husband is Mexican and comes from a line of people who share his name. Given colliding DNA, our Mexican-German-Norwegian-English-Etcetera-Etcetera spawn get to start the name slate anew. I harbor some guilt for being the iconoclast stirring the pot of familial tradition, but I’d like to use my shot at creative freedom, lend an air of individuality, and not fall back on naming my unborn son Jose Eugenio after my husband and his father, grandfather, great grandfather, and so on.

There’s also the point that I haven’t successfully mastered the pronunciation. On the night of my first date with Eugenio, my roommate at the time and I called every native Spanish speaker we knew frantically asking, “How do you say this name?” Considering we had been corresponding via email and phone for a few weeks, I thought it past the point of acceptable to ask my date, “Now, what’s your name again?”

Obviously things worked out well for us or I wouldn’t be writing about naming our children, but that doesn’t ease the difficulty on my American tongue of pronouncing the E-U in Eugenio. It’s not like the E-U in Eugene or eugenics or Europe. It’s more dramatic, with each sound pronounced but in one syllable. I can say it slowly but it sounds clunky and takes too much time. The native speaker says it fast and fluidly, making the E-U an effortless syllable. I typically avoid butchering his name. When we first started dating I called him “Hey you” to his face, Rico Suave in my head, and Latin Lover in my blog. Now that my guards down and we’re married, he’s my papi chulo, though he unsuccessfully petitions for El Papa Rey. On the rare occasion that I do say his name out loud, it comes out of my mouth as such: Oh-hen-nyo or sometimes Yew-hen-nyo, which sounds correct enough, but alas, is not precise. It’s like how a French coworker calls me Ahna, though my name is Hanna. She pronounces it beautifully and as well as her native tongue allows, but it’s not the way my mother intended. At any rate, this point is moot, as my lack of skill was not considered, but was rather an afterthought in our decision to open the flood gates on baby names. Besides, Eugenio is technically my husband’s middle name, and we have, after all, agreed to make Eugenio our sons middle name as well, but unlike his future father, this unborn baby will go by his first, tradition breaking name. Entiende?

This has presented an entirely new issue as my husband dreams up boy names. Girl names have proven easier to come by and agree upon, a point not lost on me, but I pick my battles carefully. I could be angry that my husband doesn’t put equal thought into choosing girl names, or that he assumes too much about the nature of our unborn female or male child. Nonetheless, if we ever have a girl, we have a list of names to choose from. If we ever have a boy, we have a list of names to argue over. Eugenio’s only criteria for boy names are: is it from a comic book or science fiction film and does it “sound cool.”

He’ll be sitting on the couch playing a video game and as I walk over to turn the volume down, he’ll pause, apropos of nothing, and say, “What about Magnus?” He takes his hand and brushes it across the air as he repeats, “Magnus.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not? It’s cool,” is his rebuttal. This is always his rebuttal.

I inform him that I am not naming my kid after a condom.

“No, that’s Magnum. This is Magnus.”

Magnus means large, but it also means great. That’s a lot of pressure and awfully arrogant. I am not a very tall person and my husband must, though he’ll disagree on this, look up to meet my eyes when I’m wearing my flats. Unless genes from my father take over in full force, our child will be on the average, if not small side. Naming him Magnus will only serve as childhood bully fodder. Can you imagine – a dwarf named Magnus? A completely average boy named Magnus? It’s ridiculous. I explain this much. Eugenio disagrees and holds on to his only point as if it were valid: It’s so cool.

Episodes like this happen frequently. We have only agreed on one name: Neo. I suggested it because it goes well with our last name and suits my penchant for the letter N. Plus it matches the theme of nicknames my niece and nephews have created for us. I’m Nana and Eugenio is Neno. As a family we could be Neno, Nana, and Neo Najera. Eugenio took to it with enthusiasm. It wasn’t until recently that I realized his gusto stemmed from Neo being the name of a character in The Matrix, which I’ve never seen, and had nothing to do with any inherent cuteness. My love for the name waned.

Eugenio is an Oncologist. He spends his day treating cancer patients. When I hear him on the phone with colleagues, typically the only words my lay person ears understand are the pronouns – he, she, it. He submits serious articles to medical journals, whereas I write in my blog. I mention this to not only highlight the breadth of my husband’s character but also to lessen the blow of what I’m about to say. Although my husband is no doubt smarter than most native English speakers, he, like many native speakers, sometimes proves to not have the firmest grip on the English language.

Another day after pausing his video game, putting down the controller, he says – I would say he says this apropos of nothing, but I have come to realize his inspiration is usually right in front of him – “What about Bane?” Again, he sweeps his hand and repeats “Bane,” as if it helps me to imagine it hanging in the air.

“Excuse me? Bane? As in B-A-N-E?”

“Yes, Bane.”

“Are you aware of what that means? As in: the bane of my existence.”

“It’s from Batman. It sounds cool.”

There’s probably a reason this character is named Bane, but we don’t discuss it. Later that day, on our way to the movie theatre, we find ourselves on the topic of Bane again. He’s not letting this one go without a fight. How can I be clearer?

“Ok, sure. We’ll name our kid Bane. And for the second we’ll just go with Mistake or maybe even Shit-Head.”

So you see, naming this hypothetical unborn child is becoming the bane of my existence. It’s not until many days after our conversation that I learn from an internet search that the comic book character Bane is an escaped convict and former drug addict of sorts who breaks Batman’s spinal cord. He belongs to a team deemed “Suicide Squad.” This villain is whom my cancer curing husband wants to name our kid after? What the hell is he thinking? He’s flipping the name game on its head, unintentionally making a statement I respect but can’t endorse. Right then I realized the importance of researching any name my husband suggests or willingly agrees to – which I mentioned, is one. I read up on The Matrix.

Neo is an anagram of one, which in the movie more specifically alludes to The One who will eventually bring peace to the world. Perhaps cumbersome to live up to, I prefer to look at it this way: Neo, anagram of one, is The One name we agree upon. And: Neo Eugenio – the new Eugenio, as opposed to the old Eugenio when everyone went by the same name.

Neno and our nephew Logan representin' their comics

Just so you know, I’m not pregnant, simply prepared to name a hypothetical son who might end up hating and changing his name eventually, anyway. I don’t even know if I really want kids.