Have you ever been in the cereal aisle at your local grocery story debating between the bunches and the clusters or the pops and the puffs, only to hear your name called by a face of which you have no remembrance? Yes, it has happened to us all–except me of course. You see I have this name filter that allows me to know the nature of my relationship with anyone: ever-present or forgotten, dead or alive.

In the beginning, there was Justin. Though not my first name, family and loved ones have called me Justin since birth. Why this occurred yet remains a mystery. Coincidence or not, my mother and father also go by their middle names. For quite some time, this name served as my only identity, that was until Pre-Kindergarten.

Until the age of five I knew my name, but had never been called Joseph. When it happened, I did not quite know how to react. The only thing I did know was that I hated the epithet Joe. It was shortly after this point I realized my two names had separate meanings, separate responsibilities. Justin is well-known, well-loved: the first of a new generation. Joseph is well-learned, well-liked: one of twenty-something faces in a classroom. Despite my vehement distaste for Joe, by junior high Jo grew on me. The split began.

While Justin was the funnest cousin, the sweetest grandchild, and the most well-mannered church member. Jo was rambunctious, smart-lipped and, by high school, liable to be under the influence of drugs and alcohol. These characteristics, however, could never cross paths. If they did, my illusions would fail and I would have to find a way to amalgamate all that was Justin Joseph Jo into one person. This of course didn’t happen, for there was at least one more alias to add.

College years brought about the need for a personal renaissance. I had grown weary of Jo and his antics, Justin was too sheltered, and Joseph was still a child. Fret not, for Jodi was the answer to them all. It was he who spoke with power and conviction, he who dressed with the utmost sartorial excellence, he who fearlessly trotted the globe, he whose scholastic endeavors were met with honors, he who has fallen in love more than most, he whose spirit was far beyond his years–the one with the bulletproof smile.

As I have matured, it has been my challenge to make loveable Justin join badass Jo join baby Joseph join everyman Jodi. I have not arrived yet, but one thing is sure. Whenever I am approached by an unfamiliar face, I will always know how we are connected by what they call me.

by Joseph Justin Pye
Atlanta, GA

Confucius once said
If the name is not right
Language will carry no might
So my father created my name
By rearranging the sun and moon
Vertically and horizontally
To equip it with all
The forces of yin and yang
Dispersed in the universe

Since I became subject
To a totally different grammar
All people have complained
Or made fun of my name
So harsh and awkward
They conspire to seduce me
To adopt a familiar one
Like Michael in the powerful speech

But to retain the subtle balances
In the wild wild world I wander
To hold my father’s sunbeam
With my mother’s moonlight
I fiercely refuse to change it
Even though I often feel lost
When the sounds I hear
Do not sound like my name at all

by Changming Yuan
Vancouver, Canada

When I was born my parents gave me the name “Elizabeth” and I was called this until I was 8 years old. Then like most other Elizabeths, I became Liz. I think it was friends who started calling me Lizard. I liked it because it was a name no one else had. It was unique to me alone.

I suspect it was the fear of entering JR High that normalized my name back to Liz. And Liz was my name until, at age 25, I asked to be called Elizabeth from here on after. I sent an e-mail to my friends and family and even my landlord. This was met by acceptance and confusion.

Why Elizabeth? Why now? E-liz-a-beth - it consisted of four syllables. It came off the tongue with more effort, thus more distinction. It was nuanced and complicated. It was necessary to make a loophole through. I wanted to control my identity; to tell others who I was. It’s hard though, to change how others see you. So, I decided that if you had known me for at least five years, you could call me Liz.

When I turned 29, I moved to California. Here was my chance! When I said Elizabeth, it was never questioned. But within a year, it was taking a toll on me. Whereas before the multi-syllables were mysterious, now they were burdensome. They seemed ornate and unnecessary. I felt that by going by this name I was somehow betraying my true self.

So once more I started using Liz, without an official announcement. My grad school classmates made the transition easily but my professors were a little slower. Upon hearing “Liz” they would ask if this is what I went by - as if they had been mistakenly calling me Elizabeth for the past 7 months.  Then, yet again, I had to answer the seemingly endless questions. Do you go by Elizabeth or Liz? Which one do you like better?

Just call me Liz, I say. It’ll make it easier for everyone.

by Liz Bacon Jones
Oakland, CA

I used to say I didn’t write because of my name: Michelle Hoppe.

Michelle Hoppe is a Los Angeles writer/actress. I’m an unemployed Florida English teacher/writer. She played the guidance counselor in a reversed Shakespearean comedy Ten Things I Hate about You. I played nun #45 in a school production of The Sound of Music. She is a pornographic novelist. I am a Mormon. Her website has a single red rose draped seductively across the opening of a blurry-paged novella and fine white print on a black screen irrelevantly warning away minors. I masked pride and fear, for pride is fear, behind the question, How could I ever make it away from that name?

But I now proclaim–irrelevantly, as I assume someone is reading this–that I do write, and there came a time when I had to submit my first cover letter. I’ve heard cover letters are legendarily archived when ridiculous. Phrases like, “My mother really loved this story, and she thinks you will too,” or “My writing group expressed extreme like, even love, for my work. I’ve sent you this same story three times. Please take me seriously” are kept for editor posterity. Cover letters are the art of selling oneself, the paper equivalent of an interview, so I don’t know what I was thinking when I submitted,

Dear Editor,

Bio: Someday I’d like to be published as M. R. H., as opposed to Michelle Renee Hoppe or Michelle Hoppe. M. R. Hoppe sounds a little too sci-fi or fantasy for what I’ve written. Michelle Hoppe is the name of the actress who played a dirty guidance counselor in Ten Things I Hate about You. She’s a dirty novelist in real life who publishes under my name (name strumpet!). Maybe someday I’ll get married and all my problems will be fixed. I’m asking these questions now because I have yet to be published. You could change that, wink wink. Now I feel like a strumpet.

Thank you for your consideration,

M.R.H.

The next day: panic. Aside from felonies and misdemeanors, there was absolutely nothing to be done. Two months later I received a reply.

Dear Michelle,

Thanks for submitting your work to . . .  Unfortunately, I can’t use it for our next issue.  I would, however, love to see more work in the future.

Thanks again,

Poetry Editor

P.S.  I was honestly much more drawn to the style and tone of your bio. Do you have any poems that are looser, like that?

By M.R.H.
Satellite Beach, FL

“Where is Corisa, short and Stoudt?” sang the counselor.

It was Summer Fun camp and I froze: mostly from the shock that until that moment no one besides me had thought of this mocking. It didn’t help that I was a Haole living in Hawaii which automatically made me not the shortest but definitely the largest student in the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, and at the time of this incident, 6th grade. I walked, head-down-compromising-smile, to my place in the morning line-up.

Stoudt was my dad’s last name (technically, my stepfather). It took 10 years for the school board to realize I had been living under a false identity. I remember it felt strange to be accused of this, as though we weren’t a family and had been lying. I had the choice of switching to my biological father’s name or having my present dad adopt me. No problem, dad said and he filed the paperwork. However, the other man involved refused to “give up” the children he had not seen for a decade.

“I’m changing my last name,” I told the boy I had a crush on – I don’t remember his name.

“What, are you getting married?”

I laughed and it felt good not to be a child bride only the product of divorce and remarriage.

Not much later my family moved to California. I was now in 8th grade shifting from one foot to the other in my polyester gym shorts and baggy white t-shirt outside the PE teacher’s office. Three Cholas walked by. The peaks of their bangs stood at least four inches high. I’d never seen anything like it. We didn’t have Cholas in Hawaii. They wore thick make-up on eyes and on lips and snug revealing jeans. Signs of a world I had yet to discover were tracked by the bruises on their necks. I was in awe.

“Corisa, what’s your last name?” the gym teacher asked trying to find me on the roster.

“Moreno.” The syllabus came out weakly.

The Cholas heard me. They stopped and had to ask, perhaps because of my poorly coiffed hair. “Mo-re-no. Are you Mexican?”

“My father’s Mexican,” I said. These are my people? I thought.

*

Amongst other things, it took studying Spanish and learning to dance Salsa for me to grow into my inner Latina, but really, I’ll always be a little Stoudt. The carnitas help with that.

by Corisa Moreno
Oakland, CA

In Pulp Fiction, Bruce Willis’ character tells his French love interest: “I’m American, honey. Our names don’t mean shit.” I totally disagree. So does the writer; Butch is a boxer, which makes the line hilarious.

My first name is Lisa, middle name Jan. I prefer my initials and have since approximately 1996. No, I’m not transgendered. No, I don’t have anything against my parents. At this point, I’ve gone by L.J. for so long that some people don’t know what my full name is. Others resent me for not using it on a day-to-day basis.

My parents, like most Jews, named me after beloved deceased relatives. My dad wanted to name me Jan after his cousin; Jan died at the age of 11 because she “had a hole in her heart” and besides this sad fact, she was rarely mentioned again. My dad wanted her name and her spirit to be continued. Suspicious family members considered this bad luck, so Jan became my second name. Lisa is for my Hebrew name Leah, after my great-grandmother, a small, tough woman who was nicknamed “The General” by her son-in-law, and possibly (shanda!) of some Italian descent. Her daughter, my grandmother, called me Leah-lah. Leah means weary. It also means ruler or mistress in Assyrian. Leah was a matriach for the 12 tribes of Israel. She had “tender eyes” and cried a lot, probably because she was a prophet. Maybe she was simply weary from having seven of Jacob’s kids. All sons, no less! People have asked me why Jews don’t simply give their kids the actual Hebrew names instead of Americanizing them; assimilation, I guess. I was this close to being Lena, or Lori, Lissette.

So, why L.J., after all this? After I graduated from college, I made an autobiographical 16mm film that was screened at NYU, on Manhattan Cable, and in the living rooms of my family and friends. Somewhere during the creative process that began as a music video concept and ended with my submitting the piece to festivals, I changed my name. Or rather, I reverted. My dad has always called me Lisa Janny and referred to me as L.J. when I was a very small kid. I associate the nickname with buoyancy and positive memories. When I sent the film out, I used my nickname to represent the part of me that is unfettered and creative. L.J. pursued what she wanted to without worrying about the consequences. After I moved on to new projects and jobs and relationships, I wanted to hold on to that essence.

What’s interesting, though, are the challenges that using a nickname presents. There are many people who will always call me Lisa and think L.J. is ridiculous, weird, or masculine. One ex-boyfriend says “L.J.” sounds like a truck driver. Another friend says it’s too southern for a girl from Brooklyn. (Although on Avenue X it made a hell of a lot of sense.) Plus, I’m not going to call my doctor and make an appointment for L.J. Not to mention I certainly don’t want to be called L.J. in bed. But now, Lisa sounds harsh to me. Incomplete, even.

Plus, nicknames are cool, let’s face it. I’ve worked in offices where there are 5 Lisas, but only one L.J. And, as crass as it sounds, in the competitive, narcissistic society we live in, having a brand for yourself is important. Our names represent us first and foremost, before any of our qualities can be assessed.

What has emerged is a tiered system. Naturally, my mom calls me Lisa. I tolerate certain old friends calling me Lisa and I don’t blame them; that was how I referred to myself when we met. With new friends I am L.J. but I always tell them what the initials reference. At work I always use my initials, which often requires support from Human Resources. I like close friends and men with whom I am or want to be romantically involved to call me Lisa Jan. It feels special and endearing. And of course, to my dad, I’ll always be Lisa Janny. (Or Munchkin Lady, or in honor of my long-gone pacifier, Nippis Pippis Van Flippis.)

Using my nickname makes me feel good about myself and differentiates me. But maybe more than anything, L.J. keeps my full name, and the meanings behind it, intimate.

by L.J. Fogel
Los Angeles, CA

How can a person who is an Only Child - me - wind up in such a mess and at such a tender age, too?

Many years ago, after twelve years of marriage and a fitful, but singular pregnancy, my mother had me. She was ready with two boys’ and two girls’ names, picked out so she’d be ready to fill out the resultant hospital forms when she was called upon to do so.

But here’s the dicey part: The woman who was to become my godmother (and my mother’s best friend) was at the hospital keeping my father company while my mother was upstairs giving birth to me. She, herself, had a four year old boy, and she desperately wanted another child, hopefully a little girl, but it hadn’t happened. Indeed, it never did. My soon-to-be godmother liked the name “Susan.” In fact, she LOVED the name Susan. Somehow, in the melee that was the day I was born, the decision about my name came down to her because everybody else was either too busy elsewhere or so excited at my arrival. She told the nurse in charge of such things that she “thought” my mother wanted to name me Susan.

And so it was. For all of my first five years, I was called Karen, the name my mother chose. However, my birth certificate said I was officially Susan. It wasn’t until I got to kindergarten and my legal docs had to be produced that this became an issue. My mother, always one not to get too excited about such technicalities, never bothered to change it. Now, she couldn’t understand why the school was being so hard-assed about a simple thing like a mix-up with a name, for heaven’s sake. That Susan could have been Karen’s sister (and a different person altogether) made no sense to her because SHE knew who I was.

Of all people, she should have known better. When my mother was born, many years ago and when most normal births took place at home, the doctor and everyone else in the family in the house that day - and probably lots of neighbors and friends, too - got drunk shortly after my mother’s arrival on the planet. You see, she was the first female born in a family that already had six boys. My poor maternal grandmother had no girl’s name chosen. She just assumed she’d have another boy, and she had Anthony picked out. My mother became Anthony.

It wasn’t until years later, as an adult, when she had to go to the office where such records are kept that she discovered there was indeed two Anthonys. ( My mother has a younger brother named - you guessed it - Anthony.) She immediately knew what had happened because Anthony Number 1 was born on her birthday and Anthony Number 2 was born on her younger brother’s date of birth. Just as an aside, in what seems to be a crazy family tradition, and to make matters even more complicated, he was never called by his given name. He was called Boze, which is another story for another time. If somebody said something to me about my Uncle Anthony or worse, my Uncle Tony, I didn’t know who they meant. Uncle Boze, yes - Uncle Tony, no.

Anyway, I still have that document of long ago that says I was a Susan. I also have a document that says I’m now a corrected Karen. I would have made a happy schizophrenic.

by Karen Segboer
Warwick, NY