From Ramón Estévez to Martin Sheen
And from Pablo to Paul.
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You might know Martin Sheen as President Bartlet in The West Wing or Captain Willard in Apocalypse Now—iconic roles in a legendary career on the big and small screens. And he did it all using a stage name. His real name is Ramón Estévez.
Changing his name, he once said in an interview with Closer Weekly, is one of his big regrets. It was almost mine too. When I went to college, I considered changing my name from “Pablo” to “Paul.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
Luda thumped from the subwoofers. College kids clad in maroon-and-gold hoodies and tastefully frayed baseball caps were locked in a shabby diorama in the threadbare on-campus townhouse, interrupted occasionally by an athletic feat of alcohol consumption—performing a handstand on a keg, or genuflecting on the beer-stained carpet in front of a duct-taped funnel.
“Pablo,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Whaaaaat?” she slurred. Her red solo cup, which she tucked into her chin, lolled precariously to one side, as if yearning to whisper sweet nothings in her ear.
“What’s your name?!” she croaked. Her friend chimed in. “Yeah, what’s your name?”
I leaned forward, nestling my solo cup in my solar plexus, and raised my voice.
“Pablo,” I commanded.
The first girl squinted, quizzically, which dissolved slowly, until an eyebrow arched into…what? Wonderment or inspiration maybe — the genesis of an idea.
“Bob?” she hazarded, the pitch of her voice rising, stretching for the answer.
“Pablo,” I repeated.
“Bob.”
“Pa-,” I shouted over the din, “-blo!”
“Bobbo?”
“Pablo! Pablo!”
“Yeah, Bobbo.”
“Bobbo’s a weird name,” added the friend.
From kindergarten to high school, my name didn’t draw special attention. My elementary school was predominantly Latino. “Pablo” was normal there, but that changed in high school. Most kids there were non-Latino white. Teenagers being teenagers, they homed in on what they considered a peculiarity. So, they hazed me. The following is an inexhaustive list of the names I was called: Paco. Taco. Pedro. Pueblo. Pico. Pepe. Peepee.
They called me Mexican, intended as an insult. They made fun of the way I spoke. Apparently, I had an accent. That was news to me. At first, it was hurtful. I was different and they wanted me to know that. After a while, I wasn’t offended as much as I exhausted.
“Pablo? Like Picasso?”
“Yep.”
“Oh, like Escobar?”
“Uh huh.”
People spontaneously developed Tourette’s around me, spouting whatever nonsense was rolling around in their heads. I just wanted my name to stop upstaging my personality.
I asked my sister what she thought about a potential name change. She had experience after all. Her name is Maria Eugenia, but in high school she went by “Emmy,” derived from her first two initials. She was ambivalent about it, explaining how having different names at once takes a psychological toll. You’re never fully yourself, she told me, but she understood the motivation.
One day, I heard my name in roll call followed by a different last name. I thought the teacher had accidentally joined the names of two students together. I was the only “Pablo” in my high school, but before I could say anything, I heard someone quickly reply, “Here.” I craned my neck, searching for my tocayo, and discovered the “here” had come from someone I knew as “Paul.”
Paul was on the basketball team. He was friends with the kids on the football team. All of the athletes who played for one of the major sports were part of an unofficial fraternity. Their circle overlapped with the popular girls’ circle at our sister schools (I went to an all-boy school). Paul was one of the “cool kids,” friends with some of the same people who called me names.
I approached him in the hallway later.
“Hey Paul, why did the teacher call you ‘Pablo’ in class today?”
“That’s my real name,” he said.
I wanted to say, “We have the same name! There’s two of us here! We’re the same, you and me. Where are you from? Where are your parents from? Do you speak Spanish? Where did you go to grammar school? Wanna be friends???”
But all I said was, “Oh. Cool.”
I hoped he would explain his choice, even though I needed no explanation. I wanted to hear it from his mouth, but I could tell he was uncomfortable, just as he’d been when the teacher called his real name, so I didn’t force the issue. It never came up again.
When the stage name came up in reference to his son, Emilio, “Martin Sheen” had the following to say:
That’s one of my regrets. I never changed my name officially. It’s still Ramón Estévez on my birth certificate. It’s on my marriage license, my passport, driver’s license. Sometimes you get persuaded when you don’t have enough insight or even enough courage to stand up for what you believe in, and you pay for it later.
I have no doubt he’s “paid for it” in unseen ways, but I can’t help wondering if the stage name helped him. Is it a coincidence that the son who kept his name, Emilio Estévez, is less famous than his older brother, Charlie, and his father? Did using a stage name help Ramón Estévez get his foot in the door? Would he have had the same career if he used his real name? If he could, would he travel back in time and make a different choice? If so, would he still make that change if he knew it would mean not achieving the same fame and fortune?
Maybe his career would have been “better” had he stuck with real name. Maybe it wouldn’t have been better or worse but…different. Or maybe it wouldn’t have made a difference. We’ll never know. All we know is the career he did have and the regret he feels.
I used to resent the kind of reactions my name elicited, but now I see the power my name wields. Today, when I write pieces in muscular defense of immigrants, I invariably receive hateful comments and emails. My name unmasks.
“Go back to your country!” is a classic refrain. Really? Back to Hoboken, New Jersey?
Do you think these people would tell me to leave the country if my name were “Paul?” Of course not.
My name unveils the ugliness some people can barely contain—bias, racism, and xenophobia—but it also attracts, drawing people with similar experiences or people with an interest in different cultures. Sometimes, it does neither.
Sometimes, it’s just a name like any other. My name is a Rorschach test. My name is a mirror.
Speaking of names. I wrote a piece here recently about my name. As a child, I had plans to change it as soon as I was an adult. https://open.substack.com/pub/mcnellytorres/p/wait-how-do-you-spell-your-name-again?r=1ktso&utm_medium=ios
Glad you stuck with Pablo!
As one might guess, my name in all-white Midwest burbs was a tough one. South Indian names are long, and I wanted to change it. And I was YamOOOna throughout school (it is actually YUH-mu-nuh). When I went to my reunion though, people were actually apologetic that they had mispronounced it all along, although it was party my fault because I went along with what was easier for them. But now I'm glad to have stuck with my name, even though it exceeds the character count on Substack notes...