You’ll be relieved to learn that Maine has a law protecting you from the rampant abuse of nicknames. Thanks to state statute, you’re also safe from the evil influence of those who identify themselves using excessive initials. And our legal defenses are strong in the event anyone attempts to define his or her political philosophy using dirty words.
I discovered these safeguards against nominal naughtiness in a story by Maine Public Radio’s Susan Sharon (apparently, there’s no law against people having two first names). Sharon reported that the independent gubernatorial candidate formerly known as Phillip Morris NaPier had legally changed his name in 2002 to “Phillip Morris NaPier Thu Peoples Hero,” and he wanted his full moniker — complete with that unexplained “Thu” — to appear on the ballot.
Maine law, in order to shield the electorate from harm, is reluctant to accommodate such requests. A candidate is supposed to be listed by last name first, followed by first name and either the middle name or initial. Alternately, a candidate can opt for using a first initial and a middle name, but not two initials of any sort. Nicknames are strictly forbidden.
On July 13, the Secretary of State’s Office turned down NaPier’s — or, possibly, Hero’s — request on the grounds that he’s registered to vote and has his car registered under his non-Thu name. “He seems to have reverted to using Phillip Morris NaPier as his name,” said Julie Flynn, deputy secretary of state, “in spite of the legal name change in 2002.”
Flynn said NaPier was consulting with his lawyer on his next move.
While I can understand the confusion in this case, I’m still disturbed by the implication that it’s permissible to discriminate against those with more than the average number of names or those who wish to be hailed as “Stinky” or “Buckethead.”
In that case, Maine will be hard pressed to attract talented immigrants, such as Erik Thorvaldsson, Alexander Haley, John Gillespie, or Richard Friedman, since they preferred to be known as Erik the Red (he discovered Greenland), Alex Haley (he discovered his “Roots”), Dizzy Gillespie (he discovered bebop) or Kinky Friedman (he discovered he could run for governor of Texas using his nom de plume).
Then there’s the too-many-middle-names crowd, such as Abu al-Hassan ibn al Haythan, the 10th- century discoverer of light refraction; Armand Jean du Plessic Richelieu, the 17th-century French politician; William Rufus DeVane King, the 19th-century US veep, not to mention the excessively initialed J.R. Ewing, the 20th-century creep. If they were alive today, they’d be denied the opportunity to have their full complement of names and letters on the ballot, even though Maine elected congressmen named F.O.J. Smith (in the 1830s) and L.D.M. Sweat (in the 1860s) back before discrimination against non-standard names became widespread.
Imagine our current crop of gubernatorial candidates if they were freed of such restrictions. Barbara Merrill could change her name to “Sorta Like Angus King Merrill.” Pat LaMarche could become “Not As Much Of A Nut Job As Jonathan Carter LaMarche.” John Baldacci could be transformed into “I Am Too An Effective Governor Baldacci.” David Jones could add some middle names to make it clear he’s “Not The Guy Who Was In The Monkees.” John Michael (there’s that two-first-names thing, again) could insert “Surely You Remember Donating To My Campaign.” And Chandler Woodcock could come up with a moniker that doesn’t sound like it was lifted from a field guide to birds.
