To all my faithful readers out there, I have something to confess. You've spent your precious time reading through my anecdotes and rants and raves and general incoherentness and I never had the decency to be honest with everyone. You see, my name isn't actually "The Rube". Nor is it just "Rube" or any derivative thereof. My name is Dave. Dave Rubin. Hello, it's good to meet you.
I bring this up due to something that happened to me the other day. Perhaps some of you share similar stories and I'd love to hear them if you do, but this is my version. As you can imagine, there are no shortages of guys named "David" in this world. It's a great name, biblical, of course, and no one can resist the temptation to use it to label their newborn sons. What it lacks in originality it makes up for in simplicity, with an undertone of history and a touch of nostalgia.
Being a popular name, it should come as no surprise that another friend of mine is also named David. Of course, you're thinking to yourself "how can someone get your, and only your, attention when, upon calling the name 'Dave', two heads turn around?" The answer, as you may have expected, is to use my last name: Rubin. Even the name Rubin has, over time, lost it's flair and has morphed into a variety of flavors.
What I find interesting, however, is how quickly my nicknames become the norm. No longer am I Dave. I am now Rubin. "Have you spoken to Rubin?" "How's it going, Rubin?" And my favorite: "Have you two met? No? Oh, this is my friend Rubin." Can you see where this is going? Yes, it seems that my friends have become so accustomed to calling me by my last name that my first name has lost all relevance. My parents, so proud of their decision to name me after the great biblical king (and my great-grandfather) have no idea that their decision was in vain. All that being said, I have no issues with this nomenclature. What I find most entertaining, though, is that there are some people out there who believe my first name is actually 'Rubin'. That's how I was introduced to them and that's how they know me. They have no reason to believe otherwise and I have no reason to change their reality.
Now, as Shakespeare so eloquently pointed out, a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet (pardon me if I butchered that one). In otherwords, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, regardless of what you call it, it's still a duck. But I began to wonder, is this really true? Is a name immaterial? Does it have no bearing on the fundamental relationship between an object and the world around it? Perhaps not always.
I am Rubin. I am The Rube. I am Rubey. They're nicknames, and everyone loves a nickname. It means that you're one of the gang. A compadre. You're finally "in". You mean enough in certain people's lives that they took the time to come up with something to call you and it stuck. It's endearing. On the surface you accept it for what it is: just another label to which you respond when you hear it yelled across the room. I bet that you couldn't find a single person who, if you dig deep enough subconsciously, doesn't cheer up in even the slightest fasion when they hear this term of endearment from a friend. That's just how we are as humans.
We may look like ducks and we may sound like ducks, but I know at least one of them who'll answer to "The Rube."
-Dave
(everyone acts goofy sometimes, even The Rube)
