My Name

I can’t recall what it was they did. One  might have told a really bad joke and laughed at himself for telling it. Another might have just kept talking when the time had long past to start listening. Someone else might have argued a futile point just for the sake of it. And yet another might have turned a sad situation to pure joy with unfeigned, unconditional  love and devotion. Whatever the circumstance I know that I repeated the phrase, “That’s the Newton in him” dozens of times while I was visiting with family at my cousin Scott’s funeral.

I often refer to my family as Newtons whether they are Burtons, Yeatses, Davises, Hansens, Ridings, Demeesters, Salmons, Wilcoxes or Harkers. My dad is Wallace. His dad is Lawrence. His dad is Sam, S.S. or Samuel. His father is Benjamin and his father is Benjamin. Benjamin’s father is Richard and his father is William and his father is believed to be Thomas. Besides being William’s father, all that I know about Thomas is that he was born in Bentham, England about 1671 and he was married to a woman called Mary. That is how far that I can trace my Newton name.

Along the way my maternal surnames include Johnson, Smith, Brown, Whitely, Jackson, and Hirst; and those are just the spouses of paternal grandfathers. The number of surnames would greatly multiply if I included the complete family tree that doubles at each generation. Nevertheless, I self identify as a Newton and even though they are just as much Reeses, I see my children as Newtons first. Except when they do something inappropriate, then I let my wife know that her children have done something wrong.

I recently watched a Malcom X documentary that showed an interview when he repeatedly refused to speak his childhood surname. He explained that the name his father carried was given to him by his grandfather and his grandfathers before them, but that the name had its origin in the slave owner who robbed his ancestors of their name and affixed his own upon them. Malcom refused to even acknowledge the name as something that had any part of defining who he was.

As I listened to that interview, given perhaps 60 years ago, my heart panged as I considered how I might feel if I didn’t know my history, my name and something of who I am because of who we Newtons were. Time has stolen some of my family’s institutional memory but much remains because of good record keeping and a strong oral tradition. We share these stories at reunions, weddings and funerals. They remind us of who we were and who we can become.

I suspect that no overriding characteristic exists that makes one a Newton, but I hope for all who share that loss with Malcom X the chance to find that connection in a way that who they are can connect who they were with the people they will become.