It was William Shakespeare who posed the question, “What is in a name?” in Romeo and Juliet.  That was in 1591.  Here it is four hundred and twenty years later and I’ve been mulling that one over for the better part of my life.  Most of you know me as Steve, but would you think that I smelled just as sweet were I Roger?

The tradition of getting a hand-me-down name did not pass me by.  Were my parents extending a legacy or simply lazy?  Either way, for better or worse, I am Roger Stephen Williams, II.  My parents just called me Stephen.  It’s simple and direct.  Nothing too objectionable rhymes with it.  Stephen isn’t associated with black marks in history.  Stephen isn’t the name of a superhero, a super villain or even a famous pet.  As a parent now, I know the value of finding an uncomplicated, unfettered name for your child.  But as a kid in the seventies, it must have seemed uninspired to me.

Roger is the name my father uses.  Even as a small boy, I was less a vision of budding, jacked up testosterone and more of an introspective and inquisitive sort.  Not in a weird paste eating kind of way, but such that I felt a bit…apart.  I liked to draw and figure out how things went together.  Words, colors, and sounds all had a pattern that I could whittle the day away thinking about.  I know, shocking revelation.  Like most boys, I looked up to my father.  I noticed that I wasn’t alone.  Have you met Roger Williams, the original?  He’s charismatic, confident and just has such a welcoming aura. People go ga-ga over him.  There was me, there was him.  How did we fit together?  I couldn’t figure that one out.  In kindergarten I made the bold transition to Roger, and I did this on my own.  Of course, it was a name that I could claim legitimately, which helped me decide on it.  Oh, it also didn’t hurt that I was also a huge fan of the Buck Rogers comics.  Bonus!

By the time I started fourth grade, I decided to end my tenure as Roger.  I split the difference between Stephen and Roger, settling on Steve.  I got to that age where I started itching to be independent.  At nine, I wanted to be my own man.  I couldn’t drive a car, get an anchor tattoo or move into my own sweet bachelor pad, so it was going to have to start with the name.

As a college student at Mercer University, I took my first real art class.  Growing up in the south, I felt like there was a collective frown for grown boys indulging in creative endeavors.  It was really liberating and exciting to open this door.  My first assignment was to assemble a shadow box that made a statement about me.  I jumped into it whole hog and really went for it.  On the day it was due, I had to get help transporting it from my dorm across the middle of the campus to the Arts building.  I painstakingly built the story of me inside of a carved up refrigerator box.  The rest of the class?  Those hacks had tiny, petite boxes to tell their story.  What I showed up with was cumbersome and…different from everyone else’s.  And I loved it.  I felt so proud that my statement was huge.  In that one day, I figured out what I was good at and felt passionate about.

Now, as for Steve?  Feeling comfortable with that didn’t come so quickly or easily.  Once I figured out that I could make my art my living, I started getting itchy again.  I had found my independence and my artistic voice.  Maybe I needed a name that was more dynamic.  Something with panache.  My dad called me Buck, a common southern nickname for juniors.  And it associated nicely with Buck Rogers.  But it wasn’t really for public consumption.  Then I got the gift of calm.  I figured out that I had an amazing life, warts and all.  Steve Williams is who I already was.  It isn’t exotic or lyrical.  There’s no gimmick in the name.  It just is.  Steve Williams is like a moniker from the Witness Relocation Program.  The possibilities for Steve are wide open.  Plus, it’s easy to spell and nothing too objectionable rhymes with it.