Initial response
Does it ever seem odd that companies manufacture giant letters of the alphabet for us to hang on our walls? I mean, Mary Tyler Moore would approve. In the classic television series, she hung that iconic wooden “M” on the wall of her apartment as a symbol of her independence.
She was a single, professional woman in the 1970s, determined to “make it on her own,” as the theme song implied. I adopted her as a role model back then, and fully embraced the spirit of her classic letter “M” as a decor item.
Why does the first letter of our names become such a source of personal pride? Maybe because, as we learn to read, we’re told, “Here’s your letter. ‘R’ is for Renae.” And so we learn to recognize it, and form a permanent, personal attachment to it, even though “R” is also for thousands of other names. That letter stands for me, we decide. And over time, we come to realize that we each exist as one among the myriad words of the world.
Because of this, keychains, necklaces, notebooks, sweatshirts, napkins, fountain pens, tote bags and cutting boards are all available, emblazoned with the letters that say we’re us.
I can just hear the design discussion in some board room: What will sell this season? Dog art? Wildlife? Florals? Nope, just letters. That’s all. The alphabet. No art. No distinctive style. It’s a marketing goldmine.
I practiced writing my initials in cursive when I was growing up. Experimented with little flourishes at the end of my capital “Rs” and “Ts.” I also practiced my full signature, all the letters that said I was me. I tried writing it quickly, in a way I thought mimicked the messy, illegible style of adult signatures.
My friends did it too. We practiced what our signatures and initials might look like if we hit the wish-fulfillment jackpot and ended up with a last name like Jones (banal but desirable, if your pretend husband’s first name was Davy), or Cassidy (if you happened to marry that other famous David).
From what I could learn, the practice of initialing items originated with ancient civilizations that needed a way to conduct commerce and differentiate whose urns were whose on the latest shipment. And it’s telling that some of the earliest writings we know of, in any language, are examples of artisans signing their work, perhaps a sword or a ceramic pot, by imprinting it with their initials.
Initials are meant to feel personal. When we order something, adding our initials is referred to as getting the object “personalized.” Spelling equals affirmation.
If you watch “Antiques Roadshow,” you know that authentic initials can make an object’s worth jump from $1,000 to $15,000 pretty quickly, whether it’s a painting from somebody’s attic or a ceramic vase handed down from Great Aunt Martha.
Funny, isn’t it, how simply initialing something has the effect of legitimizing it. So much so, that famous brands are often built on simple letters designed as luxe logos. Louis Vuitton springs to mind, with its classic superimposed LV. And Rolls-Royce qualifies as well. It even works when the initials stand for the company name, and not the founding individuals. Think of IBM, CNN, GE and so on.
In classic whodonits, how many times is the criminal revealed because the “murderer, most foul” left a monogrammed handkerchief or cufflink at the scene of the crime? Or in the case of a femme fatale, a necklace engraved with her initials? These letters that stand for us carry evidentiary value that holds up in court.
Mary Tyler Moore knew the worth of the letter “M.” The writers of the show knew the value of having her hang it on her wall. I may not display a wooden letter in my foyer, but I do have monogrammed bath towels. And the certain conviction that, with a little help from capital “R,” I can make it on my own.