If I’m being honest, the idea of having something named after me sounds far more impressive in theory than it probably would in practice.
A building sounds important until you realize somebody eventually abbreviates it into initials and nobody remembers who you were. “Meet me by DeBolt Hall” sounds nice for about ten seconds until fifty years later students are asking, “Who was DeBolt?” and somebody shrugs and says, “Probably donated money.”
A street doesn’t feel much better. DeBolt Drive sounds like a place where people complain about potholes and speed bumps.
A scholarship might actually be meaningful, but that comes with the uncomfortable reality that it usually means you’re gone before people start handing it out.
So if I could choose, I think I’d want something simple and useful—something tied to words, stories, or teaching. Maybe a school newsroom. Maybe a writing award. Maybe even a small library corner where students actually sit down, slow down, and read something that isn’t flashing at them from a screen.
There’s something appealing about the thought that years later, a student might walk into a room with my name attached to it and have no idea who I was, but leave that room having learned how to think a little more clearly, write a little better, or ask a better question than they asked when they came in.
That feels more worthwhile than having my name stuck on concrete somewhere.
Of course, if somebody absolutely insists on naming a bourbon after me, I’m willing to listen.
But if that happens, it needs to be done properly—aged long enough, a little complex, maybe slightly stubborn, and definitely not watered down.
That, at least, would feel accurate.
