Hartley Neita, Contributor
MOST OF US do not have a name when we are born.
It is only then that mother and father look at the infant, one saying he looks like a John and the other saying no, he looks like a James. Finally they find a name with which both are happy.
During the baby years, the name becomes known only to family and friends and neighbours in the community.
Later in life he goes to a secondary school, and if he becomes a Manning Cup footballer or track and field athlete his name can become national. Not so with, say, swimming or lawn tennis or hockey those are minor sports. Ha!
Where scholastics are concerned, there might be a casual mention publicly that he has won a scholarship, but if he wins the Spelling Bee competition, wow, he is named with an accompanying photograph on the front page of this newspaper.
PROMINENCE
When he reaches adulthood, he becomes known nationally if he becomes a Reggae Boy or is an Olympic gold medal winner or becomes a centurion on the West Indies cricket team. Any other achievement is minor.
Otherwise he only gets national prominence if he becomes a politician or a druggist or a Don. Business achievements are placed in the financial supplement of the newspaper not necessarily on the front page.
Last Wednesday, a friend took me visiting. There I met a lady who greeted me warmly. "Oh, you are Michelle's and Karen's father," she gushed. "So glad to meet you."
Now, once upon a long time ago, these two were known, if at all, as my children. Today, I am known because I am their father.
Once, when I called any president or managing director of a company, or the Permanent Secretary or head of a Government department, or any Minister of Government, my call would be put straight through to his office, sometimes even by-passing his secretary.
Now, I am grilled. Where are you speaking from? What do you want to speak to him about? Please spell your name. Usually, the person I wish to speak to is busy and I am put on hold. Minutes later, I am asked to leave my telephone number. So I give it.
Is that the only number? Is that office? No. It's home. So, maybe you want to speak to the personnel and recruiting officer or you could give me your e-mail.
No, I do not have e-mail! At that point you can her the "Ugh" in her voice. I could not be anybody important.
Now, I once received a letter from Canada addressed to "Hartley Neita, Kingston, Jamaica". No street, or avenue, and no number.
The postman delivered it. Today, I have to spell my name and, if she likes my voice, give my age. It is only if the secretary on the telephone happens by chance to twin my name to my children that her voice changes to one of name recognition.
Sometime ago, a friend of mine and I went to the Terra Nova Hotel. Once upon a time I was greeted warmly by the maitre d'. He knew my name. He used to place me at a special seat in the lounge.
I did not have to tell him the pre-lunch drink I wanted. He brought it. He did not have to hand me the menu. He knew exactly how I wanted my steak cooked. He knew I hated to see onions in my plate or gravy oozing over the meat. When time came, he escorted me to a table in the dining room, waiting politely while I was stopped and greeted at table after table.
This last time, I was just sent into the dining room. I sought a table and walked straight to it. I knew no one at lunch. And no one knew me.
REWARDS
Anonymity, of course, has its rewards. I am no longer invited to boring cocktail parties. My telephone only rings when my family and close friends call. I go where I want to, or have to, and when.
I hope, of course, the Good Lord knows my name. I hope he has a long list of good deeds and that they are many on the debit page, and that on the page where the bad deeds would be recorded it is blank because he has forgiven them.
So as long as He knows my name, it does not matter if nobody else does; and if you know my name that means you are on the Lord's side. Feel good.
