A Nation Without Last Names

By LANCE MORROW

Rosalynn Carter may have disconcerted her somewhat formal South American hosts by speaking so casually on her recent tour of what "Jimmy" thought and what "Jimmy" meant to do. When "Jimmy" was in London for the economic summit, he went out of his way to get on a first-name basis with a difficult character named "Helmut." But West German Chancellor Helmut Schmidt, with chilly punctilio, insisted on calling Carter "Mr. President." Tass, the Soviet news agency, would have none of the amiable diminutive either; in the course of attacking his human rights policy, Tass has haughtily referred to Rosalynn's husband as "President James Carter."

The Constitution forbids the Government to bestow titles of nobility, and Americans have always cultivated a certain national breeziness. Democracy and mobility have conspired with a traveling salesman's protocol ("Call me Joe--here's what I've got!") to efface even the "Mr." from the way that Americans address one another. All the same, the Carters' interminable "Jimmying" in a White House so recently thought of as Imperial has turned informality into standard policy.

Friendly or merely fatuous, Americans seem to be first-naming everyone--lovers and strangers alike--with promiscuous enthusiasm. Even Boston has capitulated. Mrs. Alfred Titcomb, a dowager of Beacon Street, has decreed that henceforth she wishes to be addressed as "Mildred." The champion American first-namer may be Harold Davis, chairman of Georgia State University's journalism department, who says that he knows 10,000 people by their first names; he even teaches a course in how to duplicate this quintessentially American feat. Says Harold: "We are in a first-name society. Few people are called by their last names outside of the elderly and persons in authority."

Still, there are ritual subtleties. Business relationships, for example, can be complicated. At first phone contact, a person may be "Mr." or "Mzzz"--slurred slightly so as not to be entirely the feminist "Ms." Then both names--"Hello, Paul Anderson?"--may be used for a couple of calls. Whereupon, first names seem permissible. Some companies take ostentatious care to have everyone use first names--though secretaries often remain "Ellen" while the boss is "Mr. Jackson." The jaunty practice of using initials is often helpful: everyone becomes E.C., J.B., T.L., and so on. Clare, a young woman who wants to make her way at Exxon, began introducing herself as "C.S."

Many, especially liberals, display a touching reticence about admitting social and economic differences. Women often introduce their maids as "Mrs. Parker"--but they rarely tell the maid, "Mary, meet my friend Georgia." Doormen, among others, usually use Mr. or Mrs. when addressing the tenants, but expect to be called "Frank" or "Reuben." If a tenant in a democratic effusion should suggest that they both use first names, the doorman is often vaguely offended--something in the relationship has been disrupted.

The nation's doctors and nurses seem to have made an agreement among themselves in the past few years to address all but the most august of their patients by first names. Some claim that the patient simply responds more quickly that way. One psychiatrist uses first names only on "overt psychotics" -- "It soothes them," says he. Many older doctors still insist on their title and surname; others have gone informal. A Houston gynecologist usually called "Bubba," however, is trying to give him self a little tone; now he wants to be known as "Leon."

Sometimes it is last names that are a sign of familiarity. In Israel, even his closest friends refer to former Premier Levi Eshkol as "Eshkol." (Golda Meir however, is "Golda" to everyone.) Formality and friendliness blend pleasantly in the British custom of saying, for example, "My dear Nicolson." Mike Nichols and Elaine May may have spoken the last word on first-name-dropping in their comedy routine some years ago about a radio talk-show host who refers to Albert Schweitzer as "Al" . . . "Al's in Africa now."

First-naming is, of course, largely a matter of instinct; either it feels right or does not. Pressagents, who frequently have terrible instincts, call up strangers and yell, "Hello, George?!" Authority has much to do with the impulse. In Washington, the town's traditional informality-- it has always been home to people like "Tip" and "Fritz" and "Scoop"-- stops abruptly at the Supreme Court, whose members are always "Mr. Justice" or, in Warren Burger's case, "Chief." Certain progressive schools insensitive to ridicule try to deny authority by having pupils address teachers by first names. American police know the trick of belittling suspects, asking heavily: "Want to tell us about it, Carl?" As practiced on blacks in the American South for years, first-naming was a sinister device to eliminate a portion of a person's identity. . In families, the process may be reversed. Andrew Young is "Andy" to everyone except his wife, who calls him "Andrew." A boy known to outsiders as "Bob" may always be "Robert" at home -- and years later someone may make himself ridiculous trying to prove how well he knows Robert by using "Bob." Children sometimes call their parents by first names-- a practice with some overtones of Eastern prep schools. Children also use first names for parents when they are angry and wish to establish a sarcastic distance.

Americans do not often understand it, but in most societies first-naming-- without the intermediate process of a seasoning relationship -- seems rude and even disruptive. Too quick first-naming is like stepping into that critical distance within which an animal will attack a trespasser. The French still maintain fairly rigorous distinctions between tu (for animals, children up to 15, family members, close friends, lovers and, in some cases, professional colleagues) and vous (for everyone else). The same rules apply for first names. Many cultures have developed wonder fully elaborate forms of address to delineate relationships, to mark their progress. Russians, for example, can open successive doors of intimacy through a marvelously tender procession of diminutives: Ivan Ivanovich, Ivan Ivan'ich, Ivan, Vanya, Vanyushka, Vanyushenka and so on.

Americans' first-naming can have an expansive Jacksonian charm, suggesting some of the better American traits: a lack of social rigidity, an easy frankness. But after a while, the entire country begins to sound like a singles weekend: "Jane, this is Steve, Jack, Karen, Benny ..." Such relentless familiarity has a cheap ring. Americans do not need a Japanese system of honorifics, but they could stand to be a little stuffier. Just as there are still-- possibly-- some things that are not done on the first date, so first names should be held in reserve, for at least half an hour anyway.

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