© Celine Sparks, 2023
Cavemen didn’t wear name tags. I mean, at least the archaeological digs didn’t show any fossil relics of bones with a scratched out Frederick before simply reading “Fred from Deep Cave, MZ.” Back then, they just pointed at each other and said, “You Fred. Me Chickashoop. Where charcuterie board?”
I’m not sure when name tags first started becoming popular. I don’t remember any pictures of my parents wearing them at high school functions. And I don’t remember any black and white TV shows where the people standing around a punchbowl had big stickers on their pocket that said Zelma or Eugene.
Which ponders the question, what did people do before we had signs telling them our names? Oh yeah, they said things like “Hello person. Not you; I meant boofont hairdo person with the pronounced chin.”
Actually, it was better then. It’s better to attend an event where they were too rushed to think about name tags even now, because when that happens, there’s this very natural way to have a conversation without worrying about what to say. You walk up to a person, extend your hand, and say, “How ya doin’? I’m Celine Sparks.”
They reply, “Fine. I’m Joe Boosplotch.”
“Where you from?” (That works, too, because there is no subprint that says Lizard Lick, TN.)
I mean, it kind of takes the steam out of introductions when you get to read a cue card. “I see you’re Celine Sparks.”
“Yep. Yep.”
And you can’t even ask, “How do you spell that?” We’re doing our attendees a disservice here.
These things started out as a sticker. A white sticker with a blue bar across the top that says, “Hello, my name is … ” COME ON, they even took the “Hello” part away from us. Why don’t we just put a sticker on the right chest that says, “I’m a writer for a living.” Then on the belt, we can have one that says, “I have four kids” with a back pocket sticker that says, “We drove through some rain on the way here, but it wasn’t too bad, and I hear it’s supposed to be sunny tomorrow.”
Done.
Front.
Back.
Done.
We don’t even have to open our mouths. See how these things help us out? We don’t have to talk to anyone!
So I’m just not a nametag person. I’d rather tell people my name. For one thing, when they read it, they usually call me Sea Lion. I try to explain it’s Celine, pronounced like gasoline, and that gets me the nickname “gas” for the rest of the convention. So every time I’m greeted with a name tag at the registration table. I usually peel the back like I’m about to stick it on, and then as soon as the greeter isn’t looking, it goes under the table with the rest of the gummy stuff.
The second thing is, they’ve never seemed to find the right placement for them. I just feel a little weird staring at someone’s chest trying to make out the writing, or when they hang the things around your neck, I end up looking like I’m staring at your belly button. It would be good if they could figure out a way to attach these to your nose. Then we could have face-to-face communication without it being obvious that I’m trying to remember who in creation you are.
Yeah, I’m not in love with the whole name tag idea, but in a lot of venues, it’s become a felony not to wear one. “Name tags are not optional,” the event coordinator says, staring you down over her glasses. “We’re going to tie them around your neck with a color-coded lanyard. If you are seen without your name tag or lanyard, we will assume you are an unregistered, unpaid, and disease-ridden invader, and you will be turned over to the authorities at once.”
The threat usually works for me, as I can envision myself behind bars in a maximum security prison with a cell bed, a sink, a commode, and a roommate. She would say, “What are you in for?” And I would break down, “I took off my lanyard in a moment of weakness.”
But name tags are a fixture in society. What used to be a one-man printing operation using sticky labels and a sharpie, has turned into a basquillion dollar industry. They’ve got lanyards with slide fasteners, lanyards with pinch-your-finger-off fasteners, lanyards that clip your name tag on, and lanyards that pierce through a hole in the waterproof pouch of your nametag. They have lead reinforcements and military webbing. You may be a shell of a woman by the time you leave the six-day camp or the full slate of lectures, but by George, that name tag’s gonna be solid.
So here I am on the end of a six-day camp that was right on the heels of another one, and I finally get the importance of the name tag.
I glance down at it, and just like that, at least for a moment, I remember who I am again.
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