Being called Adam can be a burden at times. By simply taking a bite out of an apple the original holder put a stain on all mankind and ruined the name for future generations. Although I must admit I do feel a certain sympathy for my namesake. After all, despite the idyllic surroundings, can anyone blame him for not wanting to upset the only woman on the planet?
The story of how I came to be called Adam has less to do with the Book of Genesis and more to do with the modern phenomenon where young couples name their offspring after well known personalities. Back in the late 50’s rock and roll was on the verge of becoming mainstream and my mother was infatuated with one of the upcoming stars in the music industry: Adam Faith. Family history doesn’t record what my father thought of the name but I suspect that even if he had disapproved he knew well that this was one battle he could never win. However, on the day of my baptism, the priest saw it differently.
Father Darcy from Ballinrobe and recently promoted to Parish Priest in a Dublin suburb, was traditional in both dress and character. He wore a cassock and collar, black horn rimmed glasses and a rustic appearance that left no one in any doubt of his rural upbringing. Like many clerics of his time he demanded respect for both the church and the law, canon law. Legend has it, at the very moment friends and family gathered around the baptismal font, he baulked at the suggestion that the child would be called Adam and flatly refused to proceed with the ceremony.
‘Adam’s no saint . It must be a saint’s name’, he said.
Years later I was told by a family friend that even my whimpering halted as the silence reverberated around the church and the congregation waited for my parents next move. All eyes turned towards my Mother. She ran the home, a growing family and managed any crisis going. She was small and tough and it was natural that she would answer, but she didn’t. By contrast Dad was quite shy and tall and thin, so much so that you’d wonder how he stood firm against your average breeze. Taking on the church was unimaginable and yet that’s exactly what he did.
‘The boy’s name is Adam’, he said.
This was pre Vatican II and long before the authority of the church was ever open for debate. In the late 50’s the banks, the politicians, the justice system and especially the church were the foundation on which the whole state was built. To dare to question was undeniably brave. Thankfully a voice from the wilderness saved the family from certain excommunication.
‘Give him a second name’, said the voice.
The suggestion seemed acceptable to both priest and parents providing, of course, it was a saint’s name. Being the land of saints and scholars one could be forgiven for thinking that finding a saints name shouldn’t be all that difficult. That’s where you’d be mistaken. Although I suspect Father Darcy could have reeled off any amount of names he refused to be drawn. In fairness, at this juncture, he was probably prepared to be damned than come to the aid of my parents. This was proving to be a problem because as the tension rose Mum and Dad could hardly remember their own names let alone chose a second one for me.
Again the mystery voice spoke up.
‘It’s St Benedict’s Day…call the child Benedict’
With that simple statement I was cursed for ever more. Had I been able to leg it out of there or even voice an objection I suspect I would. It’s kind of nice to be called Adam after a rock star but Benny, good Lord, how could they let that happen?
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