What’s in a (Sur)Name?

Geeking out on the history and traditions of Italian names

Signature of Giovanni Felice Tobia Ossola, born 1781, Italia.

Cari amici,

The signature in the image above, from a marriage document recorded in the province of Como in 1809, is one of the most thrilling discoveries of my genealogical searches to date. An ordinary-looking firmato that wouldn’t get high marks for penmanship, it’s a rare find—my paternal great-great-great grandfather’s name written in his own hand.

Giovanni Felice Tobia Ossola—what does that name hint at that I don’t yet know? Was he called Giovanni to honor his grandfather? And Felice, meaning happy—was he a good-natured baby or did his birth bring happiness to his parents? Tobia comes from the Hebrew Tobijah, which makes me wonder if I have Jewish ancestry. It’s so fascinating, this unearthing and deciphering of names—the monikers themselves, and their meaning, and the naming traditions within a family, which often honor an ancestor or a deceased child or carry meaning about a place or birthdate or trait. That’s why, when episode 114 of the podcast Pensieri e Parole showed up, “Cognomi italiani,” about Italian surnames, I was all ears.

Much of what I’ve written here comes from that podcast episode, and in turn much of that information came from Enzo Caffarelli’s book, listed below in the “Books of the Week.” Other sources include myitalianfamily.com,  domuslibertas.it, and the Bizzocchi book also listed below.

From three names to one

Surnames have a rather murky and fragmented history in Italy. Although the Romans of antiquity used three names—the praenomen, or first name, given to girls and boys eight and nine days after birth, respectively; the nomen, reflecting the family association (always the father’s); and the cognomen, which originally distinguished a father and son who bore the same name and later became basically another nomen, handed down from parent to child.

But this tradition didn’t stick around, for whatever reasons. Early Christians used only one name, and so did medieval Italians. (I use the term Italians loosely since Italy per se didn’t exist then, nor would it for another 500 years or so.) Eventually, as you can imagine, this practice led to confusion, which got worse when people began to move around more frequently and when the use of official documents like sales and purchase agreements and wills became commonplace. It became necessary to attach some sort of description to the particular Giuseppe or Maria under discussion, which gave rise to the practice of a second name.

Second names and nicknames

Second names, or surnames, could be patronymic or matronymic—for example, Dante (an abbreviation of durante) Alighieri carries the name of his father, Alighiero di Bellincione. Or they might reveal where a person was born—for example, Leonardo da Vinci, who was born in the small Tuscan town of Vinci. Or they might describe an occupation or physical trait, as is the case with surnames like Rossi (northern)/Russo (southern) for someone with red hair or beard. (The name Rosso doesn’t follow suit but instead refers to a political affiliation or a noble house.)

One interesting naming trend can be seen among the many artists of the Renaissance. These men had full and proper names yet became known under another. (The few known women artists, including Artemisia Gentileschi, Plautilla Nelli, and Sofonisba Anguissola, went by their proper names.) Again, hometowns, physical characteristics, and occupations all played a part.

For example, you might think you don’t know who Giacomo Merisi was, but actually you do, if you’ve heard of the 16th-century master of chiaroscuro, Caravaggio—Merisi’s hometown became his now-famous pseudonym. Fifteenth-century painters Antonio and Piero Benci were called del Pollaiolo because their father was a chicken vendor (a pollaiolo), and 16th-century Venetian painter Jacopo Robusti was dubbed Il Tintoretto because his father was a textile dyer (tinto means dyed). And another Venetian, the 15th-century painter Giorgione, born Giorgio Barbarelli da Castelfranco, likely got his name because he was very tall (the suffix -one means big).

Not all of these nicknames that became “official” were complimentary. One Renaissance artist, the famous Sandro Botticelli, born Alessandro di Mariano di Vanni Filipepi, got his name from his brother, a pawnbroker whose nickname, Il Botticello (little barrel), illustrated his short and rotund build. According to Joseph Luzzi, author of Botticelli’s Secret, when the teenage Sandro was sent off to apprentice with a goldsmith after living with his brother, he was known as one of “the Little Barrel clan.” Ta-da! Botticelli.

Another major artist in the 1400s, Tommaso Cassai, was called Masaccio because his appearance was often unkempt. (Maso is a nickname for Tommaso and the -accio ending carries a negative connotation, like, in this case, messy.)

It wasn’t only artists whose names betrayed a less-than-desirable trait or aspect. Irony or sarcasm fueled some surely unasked-for names, like Fumagalli (from smoke/roosters, meaning, figuratively, a poultry thief, from the practice of filling henhouses with smoke to silence the birds before stealing them), Muti (meaning mute, for someone who talks too much or too little), and Gigante (giant), often bestowed on someone who was very short.

Invented names

An entire trove of surnames arose from the sad practice of abandoning babies at hospitals, convents, and orphanages, and depending on which name these trovatelli got, you might be able to decipher their origins. Abandoned babies in Rome were often given the surname Proietti (protected); in Naples, Esposito (exposed); in Milan, Colombo or Colombini because the local orphanage, Santa Caterina alla Ruota, used a dove as its symbol. Or the surnames might generically reflect the rescuing institution, like della Pietà, Casa di Dio, Casadei, and Casagrande (meaning “big house,” which makes me laugh because it sounds like the babies were left at a prison).

Surnames as we know them

In the 1300s and 1400s, the practice of passing down a surname was rare; only noble or rich families did so, to convey rank and social status—like the Medici (there must have been doctors somewhere in the line), who rose from their wool merchant origins to become banking and political powerhouses. However, the Catholic Church’s Council of Trent (1545-63) dictated that parish churches record all births, and so it was in the 1500s and 1600s that last names as we know them today began to be handed down from generation to generation. And with that tradition, a name’s close association to an individual was lost. Generations later, the descendant of someone named Pisano wouldn’t necessarily be from Pisa, nor would someone named Fabbri likely be a fabbro (blacksmith) these days.

This naming practice continued throughout the 1600s and 1700s, except in small towns in isolated places, where it didn’t catch on until Italy’s unification in the mid-1800s, when the anagrafe (registry office) was instituted to record the names of newborns.

Naming traditions continue to evolve—or try to. After the Council of Trent, when parishes began to record births, the usual practice was that a woman kept her own surname and the children bore the father’s name (in most cases). However, in 2022 Italy’s Constitutional Court decided this practice was unconstitutional and discriminatory. If Parliament makes the Court’s ruling law, Italian babies will receive both their mother’s and father’s last names, and the parents will be free to choose one or both for their child. Given the molasses-in-January speed of Italian bureaucracy, I’m prepared to wait a long time for any action.

First names that tell a story

Segueing now into given names, let’s look at some naming traditions. One, common practice before the saints of the mendicant orders came along and inspired everyone to name their little darlings Francesco, Chiara, Domenico, Antonio, and so on, reflected the parents’ joy and gratitude. Instead, common words, often with religious meanings, were adapted into names such as Amadeo (from a phrase meaning one whom God loves), Graziadei (grace of God, from the Latin gratia Dei), Ognibene ([may he/she have] all good); and many that express welcome, like Bencivenga (well/to us/come, or bless us), Bencivenni and Benvenuto (well/come, or welcome), Benenato (well/born), and Benincasa (welcome in the home).

But there’s a flip side to this tradition, and sorry not sorry, I love it. Not every new bundle was greeted with joy, and such pitiful cases might be weighed down by a name as subtle as a scarlet letter. Perquezivenisti, documented in the 1200s,  means perché si è venuto, which translates to “because you came” or “why did you come” (my bet’s on the latter). Then there are Aggravio (burden), Maldonato (badly given, ill favored), Maltempo (bad weather), and Nontivoglio (I don’t want/love you). Until the 19th century, some Tuscan babies were named Finimola (basically, “we’re done now”).

The tangled histories of ancestors

In my plowing through family records going back, in one thrilling case, to the early 1600s, I’ve yet to establish that my branch of the Ossolas, in Lombardia for centuries, originated in Piemonte’s Val d’Ossola, which gave its name to the people who settled there. My roots are probably there, though, so I’ll keep digging. In the meantime, I love discovering all the other names that have fed into my Ossola line, among them Ambrosetti, Grisoni, Armola, Bedetta, Giudici, Baj/Bai, Bottinelli, Argenti, Clerici, and Malnati (oops, sometimes those nasty given names became surnames).

I’ve loved names and their etymology since I was a kid—I was probably the only 8-year-old in northern Virginia who owned a baby names book. So tell me, what’s in your name/s? What meanings, traditions, or trends color your family’s timeline?

Alla prossima,

Cheryl

© 2023 Cheryl A. Ossola

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Books of the Week:

• Dimmi come ti chiami e ti dirò perché: Storie di nomi e cognomi by Enzo Caffarelli

• I Cognomi degli Italiani: Una Storia Lunga 1000 Anni by Roberto Bizzocchi

Poem of the week:

• From Act II, Scene 2 of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Yeah, you know it; you can probably recite half of it. But read it again, because, well, Shakespeare.

Juliet:  O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy father, and refuse thy name;

Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,

And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.

Romeo:  [Aside.]  Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

Juliet:  ’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

Thou art thyself though, not a Montague.

What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

Belonging to a man. O! be some other name:

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet;

So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,

Retain that dear perfection which he owes

Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;

And for that name, which is no part of thee,

Take all myself.

Romeo:  I take thee at thy word.

Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptiz’d;

Henceforth I never will be Romeo.