What's in a name?

Recently, a friend told me about an eight-year-old boy who asked him whether Scott Russell Sanders is related to that guy who’s running for president, Bernie Sanders. When my friend replied, “No, I don’t think so,” the boy asked, “Okay, then, is he related to that chicken guy, Colonel Sanders?”

The boy’s questions brought back a memory. Barry Sanders was a star running back for the Detroit Lions in the 1990s, a truly amazing athlete and, by reputation, a generous and compassionate man. His dark skin marked him unmistakably as African American. At a book signing during Barry Sanders’s heyday, a boy looked at my light-skinned, ruddy face and asked me if the two of us were related. After beginning to say no, I paused, and then told the boy, “Maybe we are.” Barry Sanders and I might well be related, given the rich, interbred history of our nation; given the long-term history of our species, he and I are certainly related, as are you and I, dear reader, since we all came out of Africa. In any case, it pleased me that the boy thought a shared surname was more significant than any difference in complexion.