Tuesday, September 22nd, 2009

Dear Rigby,
It is Tuesday morning and in just a few minutes your mother and I will be going to the OB for our latest check-up. On this visit your mother must fast and then drink some kind of orange goo so the doctor can see if you have three heads or something. Hoping for the best buddy!

Today I thought we would discuss your name. In case you were unaware, it is Rigby Finch Clark. A name inspired by many different influences, before we get into the details of why Rigby Finch, I thought it best you first know how we arrived here.
After finding out you were a boy, your mother and I began listing names and looking for similar tastes, a task much more difficult than I expected. While we both wanted to avoid the common variety, the banality of a John or a Mike, your mother was insistent we choose a name that kept you safe from pestering, something the neighborhood bully could not take hold of. Your mother’s concern was sweet, but I knew better. If DNA had any say in the matter, an odd name would be the least of your worries.

When I was growing-up, there was nothing particularly unusual about “Josh”, so my peers had to dig deeper. Clothes, glasses, my appreciation for the genius of colored jeans, all were crucified on the playground. As my underwear was jerked towards my head, I dreamed of being a Monty or Barron, a name so obviously effeminate it would not even be worth their effort. At the very least I thought it might spare me their more piercing observations: the saliva problem brought on by my braces; the Boy Scouts uniform your grandmother insisted I wear to school, complete with knee-high khaki socks and shorts that gave way mid thigh.

My anxieties were calmed, however, when looking at your mother. With at least half of you made from her, you stood a much better chance, and she convinced me to pass on my original suggestion of Pubert.

Settling on a name, though, was arduous. Wanting something “different”, a name with true character, I spent a good two weeks insistent you be a noun. Convinced a person, place, or thing would be more distinctive, a name assuming prestige and a casual-cool intelligence, I considered the following:

1. Branch – This is still one of my favorites, but your mother scoffed at it, suggesting we might as well call you Tree. (I was not against that either.)
2. Twig – A derivative of Branch, I used this just to piss off your mother more than anything=)
3. Shade – Yes, as in lamp. By this point I was just naming you after things I saw in the room.
4. Post – I was lying in bed and had just taken NyQuil when it came to me.


After your mother spared you the life of Twig Post Clark, I moved on. If you would not be a part of speech, I was adamant your name connect to my passion, a homage to the greatest band of all time. My first inclination was McCartney, and we would call you Cart (like the noun) for short. While your mom at first refused, after a few weeks of pestering, she hated it less and less, and agreed to consider it. Our list of options began.

With that small compromise, we made headway. We both liked the idea of including a family name and agreed on Finch – your grandmother’s maiden name and the patriarch from one of our favorite novels, To Kills a Mockingbird. From there we looked for a good pairing. I suggested Virgil, but once again your mother laughed, as if the great Roman thinker and author of the Aeneid was somehow uncool.

One evening you were Beckett but by morning Samuel. After days of frustration, I began to think Branch might make a comeback, when the name popped in my head while brushing my teeth. Derived from the Beatles’ classic “Eleanor Rigby”, the song’s focus on a socially inept woman who dies lonely and miserable was of no bother to me. Your mother had to sit on it for a few days, but I had no doubt. You were a Rigby.

That’s all for now my friend.
- Dad