The Mathematician and the Pornstar
Hello my name is Spencer Raoul Scott, and I share a name with a mathematician and a pornstar.
Spencer Scott is a female adult model and pornstar, and Raoul, my grandfather and namesake, has been called one of the greatest mathematicians of the twentieth century.
This is a story about how at one time or another they both embarrassed me and shaped the reason I now go by Spencer R. Scott.
The Mathematician
There are a collection of memories we hold on to like jagged stones, bringing them out every so often, never sure why, to trace our fingers across them, to feel the stab of their edges. To cringe under the shame of their existence.
But a funny thing happens over time. The stones smooth with our attention. They transform into polished symbols of our youth. Milestones of our journey. They lose their edge and simply become the weight of a lesson, glossy reminders of how far we’ve come.
When I was 15, I created such a jagged stone with these seven words: “Mom, I want to change my name.”
Now — the pornstar, Spencer Scott, had not yet made her big debut into the limelight owing to the fact that she is around my age and I wouldn’t have the fortune of stumbling upon her in self-seeking Google searchers until we were both over 18. So, it was not those names I wanted to change, but rather my middle name: Raoul.
It didn’t matter that my grandfather Raoul was a celebrated mathematician. That he was a revered professor at Harvard for over 40 years. That Reagan handed him the National Medal of Science, or that my family flew to Israel to support him as he accepted the Wolf Prize in Mathematics.
None of it mattered. All because some pimple-faced teenagers teased me for having a strange middle name. A variant of a name we Southern Californians had been exposed to: the Spanish/Mexican name Raúl.
For some reason (kids can be relentless toward the unfamiliar or unexpected) a white boy with a Mexican-sounding middle name was absurdly funny to them. They’d howl my name “Raa-oooool”, “Raa-oooool” as I scrambled to persuade them it was different! No, no! It rhymes with growl! Like “rowl”! It’s different, dammit! All feeble attempts to distance myself from what was immaturely and unfairly decided as an inferior name, Raúl.
I actually did think it rhymed with growl, but that turns out not to be true. They are pronounced almost exactly the same, as mine is the French and Raúl the Spanish form of the Ancient Germanic Radulf.
If only I had dug a little deeper back then I would have found out that Radulf comes from the Ancient Scandinavian Ráðúlfr, which more or less means “red wolf” or “wolf counselor”. In short, I couldn’t have asked for a fucking cooler middle name.
And so, it was in the spirit of fleeing this teasing, that I told my mom I wanted to change my name. In turn, she mentioned my desire, probably as a cute absurdity, to my grandfather. I’m sure he laughed it off with what can only be called his characteristic guffaw. But still, when it finally dawned on me what I had said, what I had denounced and that he knew I had denounced it, the jagged stone introduced itself as a lance through my heart. It didn’t help that he died only a short time later. I’d never get to tell him the rest of the story.
As I matured, and looked back on my denouncement, the shame only grew as I realized how juvenile it all was, how fangless, and how unimportant. How could I let such infantile teasing overpower the pride that should come from such a namesake?
I was trying so hard to be perfect. I wanted to be untouchable.
What I didn’t realize then, however, was that it wasn’t invulnerability I was after, it was simply: not being attacked. I didn’t understand that it was *I* that needed to be strong, not the world that owed me safe passage.
And so my stone lost its edges.
I carried the stone around with me, waiting for the opportunity to use its weight and the lesson it held. That day came when my college professor accidentally projected porn to the entire class, and it was kinda, but not really, my fault.
The Pornstar
It was the first day of class. A small lab class — maybe 20-odd, bleary-eyed students slouched at their benches awaiting instructions. Professor A. booted up the projector and began demonstrating how to set up an online profile for the software we would be using all year.
Now, for imagery’s sake, I should note that while Professor A. might not be considered flamboyant, he was at the very least theatrical.
He announced with a flourish, “I already have a profile, so who would like to be my guinea pig?”
I had spent the last year working in his lab, so when no one raised their hand, I volunteered as tribute.
“Okay, Spencer, perfect. What’s your e-mail address?”
He typed in my e-mail address, made a generic password, reminded me I’ll want to change that, and then headed to the profile view. My profile picture, defaulted as a gray silhouette, needed to be changed. He said,
“Well, I know Spencer and I are friends on Google+, so if I image search him, his profile picture should come up in the results.”
At the time, as it still does, his logic confused me. I didn’t know Google worked like that, and I didn’t understand why he didn’t just go to Google+ directly. But this is the truth of what happened.
With a swift movement of fingers, he opened a new tab and quickly began typing my name into the image search bar.
S — p — e…
I had a feeling something was wrong. But I couldn’t place it.
n — c — e — r…
There was something I should say. A warning maybe… But why?
S — c — o..
My brain stalled and came up blank. It was all happening so fast.
t — t
He pressed “Search” and before you could blink Google had come up with 96 million results. Those smug-ass algorithms didn’t understand what they had just done.
The projector screen instantly became a tan and blonde collage of full frontal nudes. Here, D-cups busting out of a school-girl uniform, there, erotica on the beach.
My mind raced in the pregnant pause of horror that ensued.
I noticed the little grey box that confirmed: “Safe Search: Off”
Holy potatoes, why wasn’t Safe Search on??
Is this my fault? Did I do this? I think I did this.
Omg, has he ever seen a vagina before?
My avalanche of thoughts was finally interrupted as my professor, in a slurry of screams, panic, and dramatic flourishes lunged at the keyboard. His spasms caused him to fumble, hands clanging against the laptop, for a few moments before successfully closing the window.
There was a short pause of relief before the whole class erupted in laughter. I hid my face as my cheeks stained a deep red.
“Why didn’t you warn me!?” He pleaded.
“It just didn’t occur to me!” I screeched back, immediately defensive.
It’s not like this was a common occurrence I’m always prepared for. Although, to be fair, I am now.
It took a moment for the class to settle down and for my professor to regain his composure after making a joke about losing his job.
I can’t seem to remember, but I think it’s safe to say we proceeded without giving me a profile picture. I remained a grey silhouette all year.
The Resolution
When it came time for me to decide how my name would appear on my first scientific paper, I knew I couldn’t be just Spencer Scott.
I became Spencer R. Scott.
I never explained the reasoning of this choice to anyone as I updated the names on my Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn and everything. They probably assumed I just wanted to sound more WASP-y and dignified.
However, the choice to pin R. between my names, although admittedly partially motivated to avoid inadvertent porn searches, was in my heart of hearts a homage to my grandfather and to the kid who grew from fearing differences to projecting them for everyone to see.
