Steve_Bamlett_blog

Where did your name come from?

“Stephen or Steven is a common English first name. It is particularly significant to Christians, as it belonged to Saint Stephen (Greek: Στέφανος Stéphanos), an early disciple and deacon who, according to the Book of Acts, was stoned to death; he is widely regarded as the first martyr (or “protomartyr”) of the Christian Church”.

So says, or starts, Wikipedia. But who would have thought that when my mother used to scream “Steven, where are you?”. In truth I was never far away. I used to hide in plain sight for fear of some retribution for some terrific crime of which I was accused and of which I knew nothing.

These infantile memories are one form of a name having come from somewhere. My childhood was odd. My grandmother, my Dad’s  mother, Elsie, who Mum called the ‘old witch’, used to tell me about dire events from my babyhood when she babysat on Saturdays . She told of my arm being crushed in an electric wringer, of somehow falling down a severe descent of stone cellar steps, all the effects are now invisible as the baby body exerted its resilience, if not my mind did not mine, for I have no memory of these events, only of their narration. Elsie had her own theories about my apparently accident prone babyhood, though I have to say I grew up somewhat neurodivergent and certainly dyspraxic and this surely played its part in fixing such proneness as a trait perhaps.

At primary school, I remember a teacher, who seemed elderly to me and used to invite me to visit her house and give me books, for I otherwise relied on the travelling library. From that van-cum-library I borrowed everything including an annotated Bible, about which I announced my intention to read cover to cover, though I often got stuck on the xxxx begat xxxx passages. She first told me of the saintly origin of Stephen.

But why the ‘v’ in Steven I worried to myself? Was my name based on a misconception.

I used to ask my Dad things for I thought he was wise though he wasn’t, even though a lovely man. He said with a laugh, though I was hardly in a position to understand the joke, that it was the American Spelling and that it may have been because the American Army were over here just before I was born. But … What kind of misconception this now raised probably shot into my autistic soul.

So it’s an Americanisation of the Saint, a kind of Protestant joke perhaps. It’s not a happy origin. But origins are perhaps always mythical anyway.

Love

Steve