Lisa, our faithful correspondent at the Capital City Desk, recently posted about a library patron who seemed inordinately fascinated with her official library nametag, which actually does feature her name.

The patron was evidently enthralled with the idea of knowing her first name and, rather disturbingly, wanted to use it.

Ever since I graduated from the College of Knowledge and entered the (sort of) working world, I have been distressed by the fascination with using first names (or, as they were once called, Christian names).

I have to give props (see! modern lingo! chalk one up for me!) to the black communities of Baltimore and Richmond, which manage to observe some proprieties that the white world has long since forsaken. If you show up to Mass at the Cathedral itself, you will see people wearing jeans. Over at St. Edward's, or St. Cecilia's--parishes which were once mostly white but are now predominantly black--the congregation appears for Mass in appropriate attire. The gentlemen wear suits and the ladies wear beautiful dresses and always wear hats. My own parish, St. Alphonsus, is sufficiently antediluvian that the ladies do remember to cover their heads for Mass, but that's about it. And, a few years ago, I temped for a few weeks at the Harbor Bank of Baltimore. What a refreshing interlude: Harbor Bank is the crown jewel of the black business community in Baltimore. All of the employees are unfailingly polite and everyone uses a courtesy title. Even as a mere temp, I was always addressed as "Mr. Gibbs."

Now, as a teacher, most of the people I encounter during the course of a day call me "Mr. Gibbs," but then they're all under eighteen.

On my rapidly-disintegrating planet, one is addressed by the family name until invited to do otherwise. Naturally, I introduce myself as "Daniel Gibbs," but I'm always horrified when someone immediately calls me "Dan." That's my "familiar" name. The only people who are allowed to use it are those who are members of my family, close friends of long standing, or someone who has...er, for the lack of more modest explication, enjoyed an extended visit in my bedroom.

American culture is obsessed with friendliness, which is sometimes nice. I understand that European formality, or the Southern litany of family connections, might grate on the nerves of the uninitiated. All the same, I take issue with anyone who feels that his acquaintance of less than fifteen minutes justifies the uninvited use of my first name at all, much less my nickname. Most of you who are reading this are of course authorized to use "Dan," "Pulse," or "Giblet," but the rest of society is not--until I invite them to do so.

I'm always reminded of an old German joke about the newlywed couple: the hotel clerk refuses to give them a room together because he hears them calling each other "Sie" instead of "Du".
The German language, you see, has a formal form of "you." One only uses the "du" form for family, close friends and...well, see above.

If most Americans know one Austrian operetta, it is probably "Die Fledermaus," which is often performed around New Years Eve. There's an entire aria about the proper-name issue, "Du und Du," in which two people--newly embarking upon a somewhat illicit affair--invite each other to use the familiar form. If only this sort of reserve were still in fashion!

Some years ago as an employee of the crusty old Savings Bank of Baltimore, I answered the telephone to a rather miffed customer who immediately demanded to know my name. Being a good little banker, I gave him my full name, whereupon he said "Well, Dan, this is Dr. Johnson."
"In that case, Dr. Johnson, this is Mr. Gibbs."

Case closed.