For the 2008 season, the baseball franchise in Tampa Bay changed their team name. Before, they used to be known as the Devil Rays. After the change, they shortened it up and called themselves the Rays. There wasn’t really any deep meaning behind the switch. It was mostly cosmetic, a matter of personal preference.
            It certainly wasn’t unprecedented. When the Montreal Expos re-located, they also adopted a new identity. They became the Washington Nationals. The professional basketball franchise in their new city had also done something similar only a few years earlier. Citing a heightened awareness of violence, the owner of the NBA’s Washington Bullets decided they were going to become the Washington Wizards. Oh, and if you really want to examine the possible complications of the branding process, you should spend a moment examining the history of the Angels. First, they were the Los Angeles Angels. Then the California Angels. Then the Anaheim Angels. Then the Los Angeles Angels… of Anaheim. Huh. That’s good for a laugh.                Maybe all the high-profile identity branding will make you shake your head at the idiocy of politics and marketing and merchandising. Still, in the end, it’s relatively trivial, isn’t it? Inconsequential? Really, does it make any difference in your life how the Angels are listed as they scroll by on the ESPN sports ticker? Probably not, right? I wouldn’t think so.
                Unless maybe you’re a Native American. Unless you’re a member of the people originally indigenous to the United States. Then your history, your past, is littered with cruelty, mistreatment, and wholesale slaughter. In such a case, maybe you’re wondering why there’s a professional baseball team in Ohio that calls itself the Cleveland Indians. And, while you’re at it, you might also be wondering why the team’s mascot – their logo, the insignia they wear on their caps for every single game – features a stereotypical caricature sporting a headband with a feather, a cartoonish smile, and red skin. Named Chief Wahoo. You might wonder about that. Question it. I certainly wouldn’t begrudge you your right to do so.
               And, if we ever sat down and had a conversation to talk about it, if I were honest, I might tell you that I have no idea if I’m on your side or not…

What’s in a name?

I have a confession to make. Growing up, I didn’t like my name. More accurately, I think I hated it. Roel. Do you know that I’ve never met another Roel in my entire life? Never. Not once. It’s true.
                I grew up in the Philippines. It was a Third-World country, with a dictator who had appointed himself President For Life, and we operated under a national state of Martial Law. During this time period, a psychologically imbalanced woman who was sleeping with my father and had strong ties to the government issued death threats against me and my family. So my mom, my brother, and I moved to the United States.  I was nine.
                And I didn’t fit in. English was not my first language. I was overweight. I had dark brown skin, while my school was largely a sea of white faces. In sixth grade, I went to bed every night wishing I was thin. In sixth grade, I said a prayer every night asking God to make me white (no response.)
            I was an outsider. All I wanted was to fit in. All I wanted was to belong. I didn’t want to stand out. I didn’t want to be different. I didn’t want to be strange. But my name was Roel.

(After we moved to the States, I told my Mom that I didn’t like my name. My mom’s name was “Cynthia.” My brother’s name is “Ryan.” I wished that she had given me a different name, a normal one. Something that sounded more American.

“Like what?” she asked me.
                “Like Antonio,” I said. My adopted sister and her both laughed. I got angry and embarrassed.
                I was a kid. I was named Roel.)

Time passes. It’s funny how perspective can change. The hairstyle we liked one year seems ridiculous today. The music we listened to a couple of years ago positively horrifies us now. Whitesnake? Really? We grow up. We grow wiser. Things change. 

One day I woke up and realized that I liked my name. It was different. Unique. It made me stand out. Roel. Do you know that I’ve never met another Roel in my entire life? Never. Not once. It’s true. As I said, one day I woke up and realized that I liked my name. I figured it was good to have my own sense of identity.
                I was twenty-five years old.

So. There’s this baseball team in Ohio named the Cleveland Indians. Their mascot, their insignia is an offensive cartoon character. Gotcha. If I’ve written this much so far, I should probably have a point to it all. But somehow, I don’t think my opinion is going to be very helpful. Ready? Here we go:
                I don’t think we should try to offend people. I think it’s bad to hurt other people’s feelings. If the Devil Rays and the Expos and the Bullets and the Angels can change their team names on a whim, surely we can accommodate the valid complaints from an entire race of people, right? Sure.
                Uh, but there’s the other part of me. The part that’s pretty much a Libertarian at heart. The part that says the owners of the Cleveland Indians bought the team and they have the right to name the franchise whatever they want, without bowing to civic pressure. The part that says people have a right to be offended, but you also have a right to offend them. The part that grew up in the Philippines – a Third-World country, ruled by a dictator that appointed himself President For Life and ordered a national state of Martial Law – making me very protective of civil liberties and the First Amendment and Freedom of Speech. Yeah. The part that thinks the Cleveland Indians is an offensive and tasteless name, but that there’s absolutely nothing wrong about being offensive and tasteless. A lot of times, that’s the part of me I end up listening to.

I think one of the reasons we love baseball is that it’s a binary game. Things are very tidy. It’s a ball, or a strike. You’re safe, or you’re out. You win, or you lose. Everything is very black and white. Very zero sum. But the issues that surround baseball aren’t as easily contained. Sometimes, it gets hard to pick out the wrong from the right. Sometimes, it’s harder to separate the black from the white. Sometimes, all you see are fields of gray. 

How do you feel about records set with the aid of steroids or performance enhancing drugs? What are your thoughts on a salary cap and the disparities between big market and small market teams? Hey, how about that wacky designated hitter rule?
                If you like the designated hitter, are you right? If I like the National League rules, am I wrong? Can this even be answered definitively? Or, in the end, does it become a matter of preference, of personal choice?

                I’ve got no answers. I won’t even pretend that I do.

It’s a cop-out, I know. I recognize that I just wrote an essay without offering any solid conclusions. That’s usually considered bad writing, poor form. But the truth is, life can be messy and complicated and difficult to contain. Sorry. That’s just how it is. You’re going to have to cut me some slack.
                What did you expect? My name is Roel Torres.
                And it took me twenty-five years to come to terms with my name.

If you have any thoughts you want to share, I would love to hear from you.  I can be contacted at

roeltorres@post.harvard.edu.  Thank you.