Category Archives: Names

The visual power of names

We’ve talked before about the two-pronged nature of names; they’re both aural and visual. Today, let’s consider solely the visual—the physical. We often confront the physical power of names, though I think we generally take it for granted.

As the old adage goes, if you can call something by name, you can command it—have power over it. But merely writing a name does not seem to have the same effect; perhaps it is even the other way around: By physically recording the name of something, it gains power over you.


God is as good a place to begin as any. In the Hebrew Scriptures, God is called יהוה (these Hebrew characters can be transliterated as YHWH). The curious thing about this name is that it exists primarily visually—today, we do not know its exact original pronunciation; YHWH lacks the vowels necessary for pronunciation. (In modern Hebrew, vowels are denoted by diacritic marks above or below the consonants, but these were not used in ancient times.) Was it Yahweh, or perhaps Yehwoh? Yihwah? Yuhwoh? You get the idea. At first it may seem that the missing vowels are inconsequential, but consider that it would only take a single missing vowel in English to spell the difference between lit, lat, lot, loot and late, five completely different words.

But even back when they knew how to pronounce it, the name of יהוה was considered too powerful to be uttered aloud—except once per year by the High Priest in the Holy of Holies. For common reference, יהוה was given the name Adonai. As a result, the characters יהוה took on a decided visual power—and mystery, seeing as, in time, its pronunciation was forgotten. Then it is perhaps not coincidental that, given that יהוה was not to be commanded, neither was He to be named. Out loud, at least. For the name of יהוה has lived on in its physical form. To be loved, to be feared, to be worshiped.

Another manifestation of the physical power of the name of God comes from the Roman emperor Constantine the Great, who, on the eve of battle, was visited in a dream and told, “By this sign, you will conquer.” The sign, of course, being a rendition of the name of God (or, more precisely, Christ): ☧. Some might interpret the dream’s message as merely saying, “Fight in God’s name, and you will be victorious,” but the Greek phrase ἐν τούτῳ νίκα, to which the original Latin in hoc signo vinces has historically been linked, references a physical item. This sign, which made its way first onto the standards and shields of Constantine’s soldiers and then onto coins and stoles as it spread throughout the world, accompanied the spread of Christianity itself—and the God it represents.


Art is another place we confront the visual power of names. Nearly every piece of art nowadays is signed. But it wasn’t always so: Sophilos, a 6th-century-BC Greek, was the first artist we know of to sign his work, pictured above. What prompted this? It could be nothing but pride—the wish to identify oneself as the artist, as the person with the power to create. Since Sophilos’ day, artists have stylized and refined their signatures in order to increase the power of these signs. Think of Picasso’s iconic signature, varying very little from picture to picture. Think of our signatures today, used as identification and validation, their value in their uniqueness and reproducibility. In this same light, what is a brand’s trademark, obsessively tooled and ever-consistent, if not a power statement?


One venue of artistic signature that I find particularly alluring is that found in East Asian ink wash painting. Though these works are done in black—and only black—ink on paper, the most virtuosic painters managed to convey the whole spectrum of tonal value. The glaring exception to the black-only rule, of course, is the presence of the red seal—the artist’s signature. Yes, the seal is usually placed as part of a pleasing overall composition, but there’s no question that the use of red, rather than black, is a symbol of pride and power. In fact, the very writing system used within the seal itself is a show of power; the so-called seal script, long since obsolete as a means of normal writing, has been most prototypically used in royal inscriptions for at least 2,000 years.

Note, too, the practice of enclosing the signature in a ring, or at the very least arranging the characters in a self-contained square or oval. This recalls the Pharaonic cartouches of Egypt—in which a Pharaoh’s name is written within a vertical oval. Much like Chinese seal script, the Egyptian hieroglyphics themselves constituted an entire writing system dedicated to the show of power, while the common people used another script to represent the same spoken language.

It's Complicated

Jumping a few centuries to a contemporary of our own, let’s consider danah boyd, a researcher in media and communications.  She’s legally changed her name to all lowercase, an alteration that did not affect the pronunciation at all—in other words, it was purely visual. One of her reasons for the change was to preserve the visual symmetry in “danah,” which is interrupted when the D is capitalized. As I’ve written about before, copy editors everywhere have deferred to her will—and thus, perhaps unwittingly, she has asserted her power over us users of the English writing system.

We take it for granted that written names are to be pronounced. As we’ve seen with יהוה, pronunciation is not always possible. More often, it is possible but quite difficult. Take Japanese personal names, which are onerously complicated because of the nature of the Japanese writing system. Say you wanted to name your son Hiroto. In katakana, the Japanese phonetic script, this is written ヒロト, but you’d likely give your son a name in kanji, the Chinese characters. Most commonly, you’d write Hiroto in one of the following ways: 浩人, 博人, 博土, 弘人 or 洋人. But you could just as easily and reasonably write it as 優斗, 優翔, 博登, 博音, 啓人, 大斗, 寛仁 or any of dozens of other possibilities. Now let’s take the reverse: Say you come across a person named 優翔. There’s not much about these characters that hints at their pronunciation; this pair could be pronounced as Yuka, Yuto, Yushou, Yuuka, Yuuto, Yuushou, Hiroka, Hiroto, Hiroshou, Masaka, Masato or MasashouAnd that’s assuming you know it’s a male name—if it’s possibly female, there’s a whole host of additional possibilities. Hence the practice in modern Japan of providing your name’s pronunciation with its spelling when filling out forms.

What does this all mean? If the purpose of a name is to identify and differentiate, then part of the power of a name, in literate society, relies on its visual identity. When the visual side of a name is so far removed from the aural side, as it is in Japanese, it becomes all the more powerful. In other words, mystery begets power.

Interestingly, we are seeing a growing divide between writing and pronunciation in our own American names—at least in some groups. We all know how to pronounce John and Sally, but we probably have to pause for a moment before attempting to say Hermione, Nyx, Mia, Kalliope, Xaviera, Enno, J’Kenobia, Shaquita or Travon. Are we turning Japanese—or making an assertion of power?

Have you thought of any other examples that showcase the visual power of names? I’d love to hear about them in the comments.

Thoughts on weirdly spelled names

What’s your name? Though historically the answer to that question was a sequence of sounds (or gestures, in the case of sign language), as of recent centuries it can just as easily be a sequence of letters. When I tell you here that my name is Tim, pronunciation has nothing to do with how I’m identifying myself here—only the letters T, I and M. Of course, I don’t think of my name as solely its pronunciation or solely its spelling; my name is a combination of both.

An interesting outgrowth of this is that there are some name pronunciations that have two or more corresponding spellings. “Is that Kate with a K, or Cate with a C?” someone might ask. Or, “Steve, is your full name with a V or a PH?” On some level we consider Stephen and Steven to be the same—but they’re not exactly equivalent. They’re different names.


How did this come about? Let’s take a closer look.

I see two major groups into which we can divide names with alternate spellings: Those that indicate ancestry or in-group status (identify), and those that seek to differentiate.

Consider the name Hugh. If you meet someone named Hugh, you wouldn’t be able to draw any conclusions on his ancestry simply based on his name, but that wouldn’t be the case if he actually spelled it Huw. Though the two names are pronounced the same, Huw is likely to be of Welsh descent (or have otherwise Cymrophilic parentage).

Another place we see these sorts of spellings is in the African American community. An online discussion mentions LeRoi, Jeighcob, Brookelynne, Makaylah, Rhyleigh and many others as names the participants have come across. These, of course, are all alternative spellings of otherwise common names. (We should take a moment to marvel at these spelling alterations; they demonstrate acute knowledge of English spelling patterns in that we can read them easily.) We could conjecture that black parents might choose to name their child with a nonstandard spelling to concretize in-group identity; these types of names tend to be unique to AAVE speakers.

It should be noted that these types of names are only a subset of a rich tradition of black names, many of which are invented altogether. This tendency was satirized in a 2012 Key and Peele video. There’s also been an interesting Reddit conversation on the topic.

The second group of names with alternate spellings don’t suggest heritage or group identity in any way; they simply differentiate. Examples of these are pairs like Sarah/Sara and Brian/Bryan.

We all encounter names like these on a daily basis, and they’ve made their way into pop culture: We get songs like Ben Folds’ “Zak and Sara,” in which we hear:

While Zak without a C tried out some new guitars
Playing Sara with no H’s favorite song

Another example that comes to mind is the character Jam’ie from the Australian mockumentary Summer Heights High. “My name is Ja’mie,” she says, introducing herself: “J, A, apostrophe, M, I, E. Weird name, I know, but you’ll get used to it.” You’d certainly get a mouthful if you accidentally called her Jamie. (Granted, Ja’mie is not pronounced like Jamie, so it may fit better into the “invented altogether” category of names, though it’s clearly satirical.)

Where do these types of names come from? They seem to be a way to differentiate. This seems obvious, but it’s actually a bit strange if you think about it: It would seem that names originally came about as a way to identify things—to say what something is. But these alternate spellings instead emphasize what this person is not. “Sara” might be somewhat like a Sarah, but she is most decidedly not a Sarah.

An interesting consideration is that we don’t name ourselves; our names come from our parents. Alternatively spelled names, then, may be parents’ attempts to give their child a certain quality of differentiation. A badge that says, “My child is unique.” Could it be, then, more about the parent wanting to differentiate themselves, rather than the child?