Kristianology: A Look Into What My Parents Were Thinking

I’ve often wondered what my parents were thinking in bestowing the name Kristian Newkirk King on their unsuspecting newborn son. Were they planning on dressing me in a tiny sweater, teaching me to play polo with a tiny little pony, and enrolling me into a tiny little prep-school by the age of five, or were they simply feeling adventurous? In order to better understand what exactly this name of mine means to me I’ve decided to scrutinize it piece by piece.

Kristian. My mother’s almost cruel attempt at originality in the mid-eighties, but it’s certainly better than her second choice: Brad. Had she named me her second choice, I believe it would have solidified my fate as a football player who beats up ten-year-olds named Kris well into my thirties. So, if I had a choice between the two names, I suppose the nancy-boy name would have to suffice. It could be worse though, as many others in my family have met with much darker fates: my grandfather Elbert, Uncle Zenas, Uncle Tattnall, Aunt Hester, Uncle Heath, and, my personal favorite, Uncle Chunky.

I have mixed emotions when it comes to my first name. I’ve gone by the shortened name since infancy simply because my North Carolina-raised, paternal grandmother could not (and still cannot, for that matter) tell the difference between “Kristian” and “Kristin”—Damnit Grandma, I am not a girl! But my grandmother isn’t the only person who confused this. Throughout elementary schools I would regularly get mail from companies trying to sell me dolls and every once in a while the office at my school would try to convince my mother to sign me up for the girl scouts. I once futilely tried to switch back to “Kristian” in third grade, but in doing so my teacher counted me absent for over a week because I refused to acknowledge the name “Kris” when it was called during attendance. One parent/teacher conference later and I was back to being Kris. I’ve asked her recently what compelled her to rebel against the baby-name books and knock the Christ out of Kristian, and she simply answered: “Kristian is more English.” Fair enough. I’m not entirely sure that my family is English, but fair enough nonetheless.

Newkirk. Admittedly a fairly uncommon name that I didn’t learn to spell until I was eight, of course this was not so much because it’s a difficult name to spell but more because I found it incredibly strange as a child. My friends had middle names like Brian, and Steven. I had a name that involves a Star Trek character. Despite some reluctance, I came to accept my middle name as my favorite part of the trio, and for two reasons: the first simply being that I’ve come to embrace the somewhat off-beat yet regal allure it gives me, and also because it saves me from having the initials KKK.

After coming to accept the name, I consistently told others it was Dutch in origin until saying this in front of my grandmother several years ago. “Dutch!?” the word almost literally burst out of her chest. “Hell boy, there’s not a Dutch bone in your skeleton—my father hated the Dutch,” and she left it at that. I’m still not entirely sure what the origin of the name truly may be, but these days I just tell people that it’s English because it sounds right and nobody has yelled at me about it yet.

My grandmother’s father was an interesting guy, at least from what I’ve gathered beyond his apparent hatred for Holland. He apparently flew with Howard Hughes, was a traveling Vaudevillian violinist, and his mother-in-law (my great, great grandmother) thought he was a gypsy who was going to kidnap her daughter. In a family of plasterers, teachers, and servicemen, this stands out a bit. How can a family go from marauding pilot-musicians to football coaches in thirty years? My grandmother often speaks fondly of her father’s wit and intelligence along with his skill at violin, piano, and dance—he’s by far my favorite relative that I never met, he’s another reason why I have a sappy attachment to my middle name, and I can’t even think of his first name. I certainly hope it was more eloquent than Chunky.

King. I honestly would like to think that my last name is King because I belong to a lost line of despots and that there is an empty thrown awaiting me to take up my kingly duties. But it’s probably because I had an ancestor who made crowns in the middle-ages, or shoveled manure really well, earning him the title of “Manure King,” which, really, seems like the most likely origin. I’ve always been tempted to attack my last name for its simplicity or its shear commonness, but I think that it rounds off the pretentiousness of my name. Kristian Newkirk Leelander would probably be too much. One of my uncles claims that the last name King brings our family closer to our relatives “on the other side of the tracks.” I’m not entirely sure what he means by a statement such as this, but I imagine he is implying that I am part black. But judging by my red hair and ready-burn brand skin, I think he may be messing with me.

Despite some personal hang-ups with being named Kris in a world filled with Chris’s, I’m rather fond of my name. It’s easy to think that my name ultimately means nothing, but in trying to figure out what your name means one could figure out a lot about him or herself. Nevertheless, I think I’ll stick with the simple “Kris King,” it’s both catchy and charming in its alliteration and parallel construction. Keeping my real name hidden from the public also gives me an added layer of mystery that I can hold over the heads of new acquaintances as if it were some sort of hidden treasure. A pretentious concept, I admit, but I also spell my name with a “K” so what can you expect?