note: this was written long before another Bubba managed to become president. Obviously, I stand corrected.

They Call Him Bubba
I became an uncle recently, which, as an unplanned event, is considerably better than becoming a father.

My older sister had a boy.

She's all right, he's all right, the father's all right.

The child's name is Nathaniel. But that's not what they call him.

They call him Bubba.

I assume that's how it's spelled; I haven't yet consulted a name dictionary. It's got to be close.

At this point in his young life, it probably fits. His first attempts at speech are likely to sound similar to his nickname, and that's cute. I've not seen him yet, but I'm sure he's also very cute. But he won't be for long.

He might grow to find himself extraordinarily handsome, maybe a lady-killer (well, maybe not - he is blood). He might become a doctor, a lawyer, the president, maybe even a college dropout like his uncle. The future's bright, as it always seems before you've gone ahead and actually slogged through it.

Hopefully he'll become whatever he wants to, climb his own personal ladder to the very top and punch a hole in the sky.

For awhile all will go well for Nathaniel. He won't be worried about law or medical school, he'll just be growing like a week, as kids have a habit of doing.

Habits.

We all have them, start them without much contemplation, hold on to them until they're old friends. Some habits can kill you; most aren't quite so harmful. That all depends on your definition of 'harmful'.

Here's mine: being called 'Bubba' for the rest of your natural life.

No, Nathaniel won't be cute for long. But his mother - my dear, dear sister (and I need both of those; she may read this someday) - has acquired a habit that will last long past the magical spell of her child's younger years. She'll always call him Bubba, at least in her heart.

It matters not if her husband did the christening or if she did, and there's no sense blaming anybody for... this. They had the best of intentions. We all do at first.

I'm very concerned.

Think. Think about how a man sometimes grows into his name, fills its dimensions with his attributes, carries it ahead of himself like a banner and is liable to even inscribe it on his pen pocket-protector. Imagine the burgeoning vistas, the grandeur that will be his until he first drops his strained spinach into poppa's dry-cleaned lap and is told "Bad Bubba. Bad," and understands the difference between that and, say, "Bad Nathaniel. Bad." The yawning void.

Too young, you exclaim? He's too impossibly young to know the difference? Don't you bet on it. Just last week, I'm told, he arranged his alphabet blocks into the words "defamation of character." You're never too young to have the subtle understanding that the wool is somehow, in some way being pulled over your eyes.

T.S. Elliot once offered that a cat has three different names, and I offer this thought to you, Nathaniel. The minute all this hits you, choose yourself your own, private name and never let it go. For your teachers, you friends and your loved ones will call you Bubba, I'll call you Nathaniel, but you... you can fool us all.

Just so you know that someone's looking out for you.

The Bowling Green News, April 1987