What Does Your Car Model Say About You?

A Clubman sends a different message than a Range Rover.

Traffic on a Los Angeles freeway, Jan. 25, 2024.

If you want to know how Americans see themselves—or, more precisely, how they’d like to be seen—take a look at their cars.

What Does Your Car Model Say About You?

Don’t just look at the physical automobiles—the steel, glass, chrome and rubber—but at the names of the models. Walk through any parking lot or glance at the car, new or old, next to you at a stoplight, and you’ll get the picture.

There’s the cowboy theme: King Ranch, Bronco, Range Rover, Wrangler, Lariat.

The vagabond motif: Outlander, Escape, Rebel.

None of this is a coincidence. The big auto manufacturers, both domestic and foreign, spend significant time and money devising model names with the best perceived chance of connecting with American buyers. Especially now, with widespread nervousness about tariffs and car prices, it’s instructive to look at the names with which manufacturers decide their potential customers will most wish to be associated.

Something that hints at metropolitan sophistication? Clubman, Civic, City Express. An exotic aura of international mystery? Passat, Venza, Tiguan, Solara. How about a James Bond sense of secret agency, where numbers or initials do away with the need for a name? SQ5, GLC300, MDX, CX-5.

Is all of this evidence of “You are what you drive”? With so many choices on display in showrooms, the psychological lure of one name over another can help seal the deal.

The sound of the mountains: Telluride, Bighorn. The promise of feeling gloriously out there on your own: Pathfinder, Pilot, Navigator. Carmakers long ago figured out they couldn’t go wrong offering a Western flavor: Sierra, Grand Cherokee, Tacoma, Tahoe, Santa Fe.

Boring doesn’t sell: No car company offers a Snooze or a Nap or a Tedium. Evoking a sense of derring-do, though, is always a good bet: Lancer, Titan. Speed: Sprinter, Impala. A sizzling touch of heat: Cayenne. Bellicosity: Armada, Charger, Defender.

Then there’s the Mirage, which raises the question of whether all of this is, in the end, merely a mirage: a means to tell ourselves, as we move from place to place, that mundane transportation is only part of why we’ve found ourselves behind the wheel of this particular vehicle. If the cars we choose represent a special kind of Rorschach test, there is no shortage of self-images from which to select.

Want to take the long view? Drive a Legacy or Encore. To luxuriate in your snobbishness? Enclave, Limited. A taste for the globe-trotting upper crust? Envoy, Passport, Atlas.

A surge of size: Maxima. Omniscience: Envision. A dash of hope: Optima. Spirituality: Soul. For those who value diligence: Focus. Give peace a chance: Accord. Patriotism: Countryman.

We’ve barely scratched the surface here (though no cars were scratched in compiling these names). The smorgasbord of car labels makes you wonder what Henry Ford would have made of all this during the early years of driving when one car—his Model T—ruled the American road.

If he was seeking a spiffy name for a future model, he might have sought a suggestion from his son, Edsel.

Mr. Greene’s books include “Chevrolet Summers, Dairy Queen Nights.”