Getting to know the volcano.

The Icelandic volcano with the awkward name apparently isn't going away.

If you were jotting a note about air travel or geology over the past few weeks, I’m guessing that the copy and paste functions on your computer got a workout. Transcribe the casserole of vowels and consonants in Eyjafjallajokull?

Fuhgeddaboutit.

Broadcasters had fun trying to pronounce the name. An Icelandic singer (not the easy-to-say Björk, though that’s not her full name) composed a ditty about the infelicitous blowhole. As Icelanders knew, and travelers quickly learned, eyja means island, fjalla mountain, and jokull glacier. Together, they spelled major inconvenience.

Most people simply talked of the “Iceland volcano.” That work-around was fine at first. Then two things happened: Eyjafjallajokull stayed in the news, and concerns emerged about two other Icelandic volcanoes, the “angry sisters” Katla and Hekla. So it was time to deal with the name. People who mastered it – or at least could confidently mouth something approximating AY-uh-fyat-luh-YOE-kuutl-uh – often added the nice touch of a Scandinavian accent.

What’s in a name? A name provides identity. It separates one from many, turns a stranger into a familiar. We can glide along with generalities for a while, but specifics – a name, a brand, a moniker – mean we are committed. All the Russian names in “War and Peace” can tempt a reader to think of someone like Vasily Dmitrich Denisov as “Good D” and Fyodor Ivanovich Dolokhov as “Bad D.” But if you pronounce the names, the individuals come alive.

Same thing in the animal world. A parakeet can be yellow or blue in the pet shop; millions have those colors. Things change when you call one Blondie and take her home. Leave the cage door open before you name the bird and you might feel chagrin if it flies away. Leave it open after you’ve cooed to Blondie for a few days and you’ll feel genuine loss.

Ditto the plant world. While it is true that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, a David Austin Shropshire Lad is distinct from a David Austin Graham Thomas.

As children, our name is integral to our identity. A random or whimsical choice made by Mom and Dad can become a near-sacred thing. I was named after no ancestor or family friend as far as I know. Yet as a boy I needed to know what my name meant, why it was my name. I was fascinated by a book called “A Boy Named John” that made me kin with Ivans in Russia, Juans in Spain, and Seans in Ireland. Eventually, I probably inhabited the name as much as it labeled me.

As a species, we enjoy naming things. Adam seemed to think it was his job in Eden. An even accidental naming can have lasting effect. The continents of the Western Hemisphere, for instance, were named by cartographer Martin Waldseemuller for a competent but second-tier explorer of the New World. Columbia would have been a fine name. But after five centuries of wars and causes and songs about America, it is too late to rebrand.

Some years ago, I read up on memory aids to help me in social situations. One author recommended turning names into images. Mr. Smithson would be remembered as a blacksmith with a small son, for instance. While that may work for others, it didn’t for me.

Another suggested repeatedly working the person’s name into the conversation, much as a salesman or politician does: “Ebenezer Smithson? That’s a great name, Ebenezer Smithson. You don’t mind if I call you Ebenezer, do you?”

That seemed fake. So now, I just try to pay close attention to the person I’m introduced to. Example: Björk Gudmundsdottir? The Björk Gudmundsdottir? Love your music. You live near Eyjafjallajokull, right?”

John Yemma is editor of 
The Christian Science Monitor.