SquarePeg Books

“Let me guess–Joe made it?” I heard someone say about one of the many projects I’ve finished.

I’d made bags out of dead pants and gave some to a friend of mine, who was in turn giving one to a mutual friend of ours (not in a bad way–the people I run with always have uses for sturdy bags with lots of pockets to carry project #987,874,005). Our mutual friend asked if I had made it. Once again, not in a bad way–mostly a kind of playful way. A way that says “This is something Joe would make, and I would be shocked if anyone else made it.”

The thing is, in the broader circle we three run in together, I’m not called “Joe.” I’m called “Patches” (For the obvious reason that I take scraps and broken crap and patch them together into something useful and sometimes even pretty.)

No one in that crowd calls me “Joe.” It’s “Patches.” End of discussion.

We three have known each other for something on the order of 15 years or so. We’ve gone to events together, we’ve commiserated over stupid life things together, we’ve gawped at each other’s finished crafty projects with appreciation.

But I. Am. NOT. Called. “Joe.” It’s “Patches.”

I didn’t get all up in arms over the use of my proper name, but I do remember blinking in shock. Stopped flat-footed, not just by the use of my name, but also by the sudden anger that flared up because I hadn’t been called “Patches.”

It was an emotion I wasn’t expecting.

More than a week later, I’m still pondering my reaction: Why would I be so deeply offended at someone using my name as opposed to my nickname? It isn’t like I’m trying to live off the grid to prevent people from realizing I’m #1 on the FBI Most Wanted List.

A few weeks later, it happened again, only this time she said “I love you, Joe,” while cackling wildly at a joke I’d made.

Again, my irritation flared up—why, though?

Once upon a time, the use of my name was an instant identifier for me. If men/boys called me “Joe”, I knew I was just a friend. If they used “Josephine”, I had good reason to suspect they had romantic intentions.

Now in my forties, people hardly ever use my name. On the rare occasion that either “Joe” or “Josephine” is spoken, it’s jarring to me. Unexpected. I’ve even come to take it as a warning—“this person wants something from me.”

I’ve been thinking about names lately. They have a certain power over our thinking. If they didn’t, we wouldn’t have nicknames, or shortened names, or even middle names that we prefer to be identified by. People wouldn’t select handles for social media that are wildly different than their own names, nor would there be a legal process to change one’s name, or write under a pseudonym.

Our names change as we grow, sometimes as people give us new monikers to go by, while other times it’s because there is something about the new name that we’ve picked that speaks to us in whatever phase of life we are currently in.

I have to wonder “What phase am I entering now?”