I’m not quite sure I have a name. Ever since I can remember people have always stumbled over what I think my parents intended it to be. I’m not even sure telling it would do any good. You probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce it. I usually just lie to people, “it’s Jerry”, to eliminate the possibility of an awkward exchange: yelling, questioning, or whispering into the ears of one another. I’m sure those of you with exotic names can agree with me that nine times out of ten when you try to introduce yourself either a stereo blasts, a party starts, a baby cries, or all the above.

It’s providence. Who or whatever up there must agree that my name isn’t a good one. Unique, yes. Good, no. But hey, I’m not complaining. Nowadays it’s not such a bad thing to have what I’ve got, that is, if you’re a terrorist. No two ID’s of mine are the same, achieving what every Al-Qaeda operative trained and ran through a remote deserted desert for: official illegitimate legal documents - all variations of one another, like a game of telephone.

It’s not my fault and it’s not my parents fault. Which, if it’s not really anybodies fault maybe it isn’t even anything. Not even a name. Just an unforeseen eruption of word vomit from my mother’s mouth after laboring for five hours in that sterile white hospital room 49 years ago.

The nurse ran in with her gray clipboard and shouted at my mother, “What are you gonna call it?!”

She said, “Jaron.”

by Jaron Hershel
Washington D.C.

Bobby Joe

photo by Brynn Metheney
Oakland, CA