“The first shall be last and the last shall be first.”
One wonders whether that Biblical promise came about as consolation for those of us whose last names occur late in the alphabet.
Somebody needs to do a study on the effects this patronymic curioditty has on the Zamoras and Zummachs, who can probably tell tales of having to wait while those with surnames high up in the alphabet get their turn first.
Theories abound as to how and why the current alphabet came about, and inescapably, it has been a tool for favoring people with the “early” last name and creating difficulties for those near the end.
Even the words in the Bible, “I am the alpha and the omega” clearly show the preference—the first and last—for ordering things. Nothing the Vigils, Wilsons, Zimmermans, Zolds, Ybarras and Ximenezes can do will re-order the alphabet. About all we can do is plead with people for fairness, or else just be patient. We’re good at that.
Here are some examples of how important it is to arrange things alphabetically:
–A dozen websites extol the virtues of naming your business in such a way that it appears early in the phone book. Notice how many companies have a slew of A’s in their names;
–Because we all learned the alphabet (whether in English or Spanish) from A to Z, it’s simply easier to take first things first and start at the beginning;
–Teachers often seat their students alphabetically, and possibly give the front rows more attention.
–People doze off by the time they get to the last half of the alphabet.
My brother Severino’s five children graduated from Santa Fe High School, and he lamented the fact that such huge graduating classes ought to move more efficiently. He suggested having the superintendent lead a sort of pep rally, in which he’d shout, “Give me an A,” and all the Adamses, Andersons, Abeytas and Almanzars would rush up to the platform.
This past June, the Santa Fe New Mexican published a letter to the editor from a woman, which began, “My son is blessed, and sometimes cursed with a last name beginning with ‘Z.'” She complained that the commencement exercises were so long—and in alphabetical order—that “the Tapias, Thornes, Valdezes, Wilkinsons and Yozell-Epsteins . . . never got a chance to clearly hear their son or daughter’s name called.”
The writer mentioned that “somewhere during the ‘M’s, parents of daughters or sons who had already crossed the stage decided to go onto the field. The commencement turned into a sports event—people milling about, talking, shouting to each other, hawking programs and water. These were not kids; these were parents and grandparents who showed no respect for those graduates with last names occurring late in the alphabet.”
The graduate’s name is Nicholas Raymond Zvelebil, guaranteed to be last in any gathering, unless he has a sibling named Zeke.
As a person toward the end, I was at first elated when our home-room teacher at Immaculate Conception School announced that our class would line up alphabetically for our thanksgiving lunch. “Arthur, get back with the T’s; we’re lining up by last name, not first name,” Sister Mary Edith said.
Stanley Allen, Joe Alarcon, Mary Lou Barela and Fred Cordova got the great pickings that November in the 1940s: drumsticks, breasts, stuffing and cranberries. Those in my group got the wings and gizzards, and something green. By the time Joseph Wasson and Sef Valdez and Martha Ulibarri got up to the serving line, about all that was left were feathers and the gobble.
And since then I’ve been cognizant of the patent disadvantage so many of us have. Was there ever, in the entire history of civilization, a teacher who said, “Now, for your restroom break, I want you to line up reverse alphabetically”? No, it has never happened, nor will it ever. Why? Because people have to think harder to reverse the alphabet even though nature’s call knows no alphabetical sequence.
Registration day at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville was, to no one’s surprise, another experience of serving the A’s, B’s and C’s first and having the rest of await our Social Security checks which were due to arrive some years before U.Va. processed several thousand students.
At the time, the early ’70s, a number of Arabic students were enrolling, and many of us envied so many of them for having names beginning with “Al.” What if I were to attempt a name change, something like Al Trujillo? It was a thought, but with my luck, “Al” would have been interpreted as a first name, and in that case, I’d be no farther ahead in line.
Now, I can often advance toward the front of the line—but only if we line up according to age. And one bit of redemption might come if I’m ever in line for vaccinations. I can see and hear it now: “Abigail Abeyta, you go first.”