St. Charles, Jefferson. That could be our address — not Denver, Colorado. Apparently the first pioneer settlement on the east bank of Cherry Creek was initially called St. Charles, and when settlers were lobbying for Colorado to become an independent territory, a group of Democrats wanted it named Jefferson after the third president.
Would our city — state — be different if it carried those monikers?
The theory of nominative determinism, popularized in the pop science book Freakonomics, states that people gravitate toward areas of work that match their name. Could the same hold true for places?
There’s an interesting historical case that seems to prove nominative determinism, and bolsters the idea that a place name can also have undue influence.
You may have heard about the Mitford sisters. Minor British nobility, Nancy was a well-known novelist; Deborah, a duchess; Jessica, an avowed communist; Diana was married to Sir Oswald Mosley, leader of British fascism; and still another, Unity, was a self-proclaimed Hitler acolyte. (The sixth, Pamela, managed to avoid notoriety.) Here’s where the nominative determinism kicks in: Unity’s middle name was Valkyrie, named for the Norse war goddess depicted in the Wagner opera of the same name, beloved, of course, by the Nazis. Where it gets really spooky, however, is the town that Unity was born in: Swastika, in the Canadian province of Ontario, where her father was living, unsuccessfully mining for gold. Was her destiny pre-determined?
What does your name and place say about you?
Shana Goldberg may be reached at [email protected]
Copyright © 2017 by the Intermountain Jewish News
