My Name

I used the vignette "My Name" from Sandra Cisneros's The House on Mango Street as a writing prompt to start my students thinking about their names and a little of where they come from. This is what came from my name exploration (along with a lot of other pre-writing material that may spin off into something else later).

As I grew up, my mom (and dad) insisted on everyone calling me Joseph, not shortening it to Joe, or Jo-Jo, or definitely not Joey. Never Joey. In Kindergarten, there happened to be another Joseph in my class who became my good friend, and whose mother had the same intentions for her child’s name. So when the teacher asked if she could call one of us Joe or Joey, both of us insisted on being called by our full first name. We became known to the rest of Ms. Cogwell’s classroom as Joseph A. and Joseph V.

And with Mom’s insistence on using my full given first name, I was sometimes teased about leading donkeys and pregnant women to stables around Christmastime—even more so when a little girl named Mary moved into the neighborhood and started going to the same church. On other occasions I was asked where I left my coat of many colors or if I had interpreted Pharaoh’s dreams lately. And when that blasted technicolor musical came out, I loathed it. Still, anytime someone starts singing “Go, go, Joseph!” I want to rip out their vocal chords with my teeth.

As I grew lankier and my voice started cracking, my self-confidence dropped. Around the time my family moved to England when I was in 7^th grade, I stopped sticking up for my name. On my first day at Feltwell American Middle, this kid named Patrick also moved in; our schedules were identical six out of seven classes. In fourth period, band, we introduced ourselves quietly to the teacher, and he promptly addressed the class: “Everybody, this is Pat and Joe, our new trumpeters.” The abbreviated names stuck. It took some getting used to, but they stuck. That summer my baseball coach started calling me Joe, as in DiMaggio, and I decided that I kind of liked it. It fit in with all the other one-syllable names: Sam, Matt, Jon, Rob. And I decided that when roll was called in my school that upcoming fall that I would become Joe. Simple. To the point. Just Joe. Forgettable, yet unforgettable.

As far as Joey goes, only two people ever called me that (and lived to tell, that is). The first was a girl—I think her name was Amanda—a roommate of a girl I dated in college. I didn’t even know her that well; she was fairly annoying, too, if I remember correctly. Why she could get away with it and no one else could, I have no idea, but she did. The second person who still gets away with this heinous sin against my name is my niece Lily. For some reason she could never say Uncle Joe without adding extra vowels to the end, even though it’s easier than Joey. And although she’s about to grow out if it, I might just miss that for some strange reason—but just from her.

                Since that turning point in 7^th grade, I’ve mostly stuck with Joe, but with variations such as Jose, or Pepe, as some in Spain dubbed me, but more often than not now I am just your average Joe. A few have tried other things, but they have failed to stick. One exception would be an uncle who calls me “Goph,” which is how my sister said my name before she could really talk. Others attempted to use it as well, but it just came out weird for them to use it.

                But Joe stuck; it’s how I introduce myself; it’s how everyone knows me. Except with my family, that is. My parents and sister always call me Joseph. Every once in a while my brothers will Joe me, but not very often. I guess it’s like an inner circle that I’ve created. My wife knew she had really come into the family when she felt comfortable calling me by my complete first name instead of the shortened version I used to introduce myself to everyone else.

                To wrap up this name exploration, I’m actually going to include part of a blog post from October 2012, “Introducing Average Joe (of Joe Average Writer),” where I answered where the name of my blog came from. It’s a derivation of my name (duh) worth telling again.

Several people have asked where the name Joe Average Writer came from.  I think I can pinpoint a specific job interview as the conception of my moniker.  The final question, as asked by the assistant manager Charlie (who, as I came to find out was a wonder doofus and breaker of pretty girls' hearts), went something along the lines of "So...what makes you stand out from the average Joe?"  He then proceeded to toss his black wavy hair and laugh at his own joke.

Apparently, the applicant after me, Shannon (who was also hired), overheard that last part and spread it around school.  Fast-forward to...um...yesterday.  I was writing an introduction about myself for an online independent study class that I am rewriting, and I decided to play off my name and who I am.
               I have always suffered from an identity crisis.  From the time I was old enough to think for myself, I wanted to be everything: a policeman, an explorer, a baseball player, a zoo keeper, a restaurant owner, even a lyricist.  I wanted to be the best.  And so I dabbled…in just about everything (and that’s almost not a hyperbole).  I ran from one activity to the next, always wanting to play a part, always wanting to be included, like that little puppy that just wants to sniff every hand swinging down the sidewalk.     

                So it seems only natural to dub myself a Renaissance Man—adept at anything I attempt. Right?  I do it all: language, math, science, arts, philosophy, even video games.  Well, there’s  kind of a problem.  My lack of focus contributed to my lack of mastery of any one particular field.  And so, I am the understudy, the runner –up, the honorable mention.   I don’t excel in anything—sports, cooking, writing, music, intelligence, crocheting (not that I’ve ever really wanted to), or anything that I can think of.  I’m not a mechanic or a computer tech geek.  My wit isn’t the sharpest, and neither is the #2 pencil I sketch with from time to time.  I’m your average Joe.

                Instead of a Renaissance Man, I guess I am the Joe-of-all-trades, master of none.  With my lack of ability to be the lead, the starter, the headliner, there is no way I could ever hold court with the likes of Leonardo or Michelangelo, unless we’re talking about ninja turtles, and even then only if we’re talking pizza consumption. 

                I never became everything I dreamed of as a kid.  I became more: a teacher, a coach, a father, a cook, a writer, a well-rounded human being, and I’m not just talking about my waistline. I still don’t steal the show, but I don’t have to.  Even though I’m not the best at everything, I still make a difference.

                Sort of fitting, don'tcha think?  Since the inception of being an Average Joe (or 'better than the average...' or 'rougher than the average...' or 'smarter than the average...'--you get the idea) it's floated along with me.  When I worked at The Brick Oven in Provo, there was a kid named Chris whose greatest delight was hearing himself talk.  And he loved more than anything to make up "Yo Mama" jokes.  Those of you with good inferencing and predicting skills already see that this led to "Joe Mama" jokes (none of which ever made any sense, by the way).  This inadvertently led to servers asking for "Joe Mama's Special of the Day" and would actually introduce it to a select group of customers that way.  It stuck.

                The wordplay part of me loves the play on "Joe" and the colloquial "Yo'" part, not to mention the obvious pronoun reference in español.  And so, when creating this blog three years ago for the National Day on Writing, I incorporated it with my love for writing.  But like my short introductory snapshot states, I'm not the best.  I never will be.  And I'm okay with that...as long as I can make some kind of a difference.  The microscopic few who are still reading at this point are some evidence of that.  So thank you for validating who I am, especially those whom I torment on a regular basis.

                In the end, you can call me either Joseph or Joe, or just about anything, just don’t call me late for dinner, to borrow one of my dad’s favorite bad jokes. I answer to just about anything…unless you are one of my students. Then “Mr. Anson,” “Your Excellency,” or “Master” will suffice.