The Fisker Karma is my dream car. It goes from 0-60 mph in 5.8 seconds, gets up to 100 MPG and has solar panels to cool the interior when parked. Despite the fact it looks like the stunning progeny of a sleek European coupe that had a triste with an American muscle car, it was the name that sold me.
I believe in the power of names. There’s no metaphysical origin for my belief. I didn’t attend an ashram, a sweat lodge, or a drumming retreat to attain this insight. It was a practical lesson inadvertently bestowed upon me at the age of six by my mother:
It was the year she bought an AMC Gremlin.
Unless your early childhood education didn’t include Looney Tunes, you know that the Gremlin is a mythical creature that is the love child of Handy Smurf and Alien and preys on machinery. Naming a motor vehicle a Gremlin is on par with someone christening their new yacht the Titanic or swimming off the Great Barrier Reef with a belt made of chum.
The only thing worse than manufacturing a car with such an unfortunate name is to willingly buy one. Plus, the Gremlin was fugly with a capital F. Mom called it the “pregnant roller skate.” It’s the vehicular equivalent of beer goggles; if you stare at it long enough, even the Toyota Prius begins looking snazzy.
In mom’s defense, Consumer Reports (allegedly) gave it good marks, which I find astounding considering we spent more time squeezed into the passenger’s side of a tow truck heading to the dealer for another loner car than actually riding in it. We were on the side of the highway more often than a prison workcrew.
American Motors Corporation’s ability to get this kind of review from the venerable publication was a stroke of evil genius. Someone at AMC must have convinced Consumer Reports to go in on an April Fools gag (the Gremlin was introduced to the public on April 1, 1970) to tout the unveiling of a car named after these contraption killers only to double-cross the magazine. They got eight years of sales off that slick move. However, where’s AMC today?
Bad karma.
It was a powerful lesson for a six-year-old that a good name was vital to survival. I now fully understand why I was motivated to name my parakeet “Flyer”; I wasn’t taking any chances.
However, my Aunt Jan didn’t make the connection when she named her pets and if further validated the karma of name-calling. Years after mom sold the Gremlin to a college student (who, after giving my mom cash, leaned on the car and his hand went through the hood, and she replied, “It’s yours now.”), my Aunt’s house caught on fire. Lucky, the dog, made it out safely. Crispy, the cat, well…not so good.
Bitter-sweet karma.
This is especially the case with baby names. Don’t get started with me, I’m not going to ignorantly bash people who use names with origins that are simply unfamiliar to the average American. Names like Aisha, Mercedes, Kayode, Chima, and Juma are all perfectly acceptable.
It’s when you find out that “Tay-Tay”, the cashier at the grocery, is actually short for Clitaya and you have to stare her dead in the eye and without as much as a facial tick.
Creative. Unique. Dare I say, reverential? Yes.
Good karma? Ask her brother Peonus.
(I guess it’s better than Dick.)
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