WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Imagine, if you will, standing. Imagine standing for eight hours. Imagine standing for eight hours being nice to every stranger who, in all their years, has not yet realized that you need a stamp to mail a letter, that zip codes are important, and that you were supposed to wrap your package BEFORE you reached the post office counter. It takes a stronger, more patient person than me to do that job. I wouldn’t do it. No, I couldn’t do it. Grumpy doesn’t look good on me. And I’m afraid grumpy is all I could muster.

I just returned from the post office. I love my local post office. The folks at 23rd and Union are consistently pleasant, a major feat considering their circumstance. I was at the PO to add money to my workplace’s postage due account. PO, pronounced like “go”, that’s how the insiders say it. I only know this because I worked many years with an ex-post office employee. She was consistently pleasant too. It takes a special kind of person I guess.

Anyway, as I was finishing my PO business the clerk asked to see my I.D. I was not offended. I was paying with a check. Or maybe it had something to do with homeland security. I was, after all, in a US government office, and we are all highly suspect these days. There on my driver’s license it was, in big bold letters, WORM, JAMES MARTIN. My clerk was quite pleasant. At this point that should be no surprise to you. Anne was possibly East Indian with an incredibly friendly face and a soothing accent. I observed as she scanned my I.D. Then I saw the look, one that I am quite familiar with. It’s the look a person gets when their brain realizes they just had an amusing thought but is unsure whether it’s appropriate to share their immediate reaction. She hesitated. But her thoughts got the best of her. “WORM, what is this name you have been given? Was someone mad at you?” Again, I was not offended.

I struggle with honesty in my every day. I carry all the pieces of me wherever I go. But I take them out one by one, as if they were items in a purse, depending on what I think the person in front of me might be interested in seeing. I don’t carry a purse. Don’t get me wrong; I am certainly not opposed to men carrying purses. But I have difficulty keeping track of the items in my paper-thin wallet. You would find there, if you happened to be in my front pants pocket, one credit card, one debit card, one gym membership card, and one driver’s license bearing the inscription WORM, JAMES MARTIN. You will not find cash. I would spend it frivolously. You will not find an insurance card. That’s the daredevil in me. I know, living on the edge you might say. You will not find a social security card. That number has been emblazoned on my brain since I got my first job. No, a purse would just be an open invitation to carry far too many insignificant pieces of my life to the far reaches of the globe. But if I did carry a purse it would be small, made of manly leather with the word “MASCULINE” riveted across it in white rhinestone. I am very comfortable with contradiction. Okay, I only carry a few pieces of me wherever I go. Most of those pieces stay in my pocket. I’m afraid of what people will see when all of me is in the room. So I can easily admire Anne. She had a thought and just let it go, unafraid.

“Who would give you this name?” It was becoming apparent that Anne really wanted answers. At the register to my right Anne’s co-worker giggled. She didn’t seem to be one who would ask such a personal question. But she clearly reveled in Anne’s ability to overcome that inhibition, as did I. I grinned at Anne, “My parents. They are fond of our name.” “Where is this name from?” she pressed on. I explained that my surname originated in Germany. “Ah, this word has another meaning in Germany.” Anne was obviously attempting to comfort me for my unfortunate name. But I didn’t have an answer to Anne’s comment. I have no idea what the word Worm means in German. The family story is that my great grandfather emigrated from Worms, Germany and that his surname was Wurm. Though it seems plausible, I have no proof of this. Maybe he was from Worms and was given the name of his birthplace at Ellis Island. Wasn’t the beauty of immigrating to America in those days that you could leave your past behind to find a better, more successful self? Perhaps shedding one’s surname was a welcome part of that transformation.

“Do you get mad that you were given this name? If I was given this name I would worry what do people think of me, a worm.” This may be Anne’s most fascinating question, or my most fascinating answer. Though I often fantasize of leaving my past behind to find a more successful self, a self that is proud of all his pieces, I have never had a desire to shed this surname. Some cousins of mine actually did change their name to Williams from Worm. They had gotten into so many fights defending the name that they felt it cruel to bequeath Worm to their children. But, complete with a fully operational sense of humor my parents bestowed the name upon my siblings and me. Heckling us over our name was ineffective because we were always first to joke. We had no qualms carrying the joke to extremes. To this day, most of my family lives in the housing subdivision that was once the family dairy farm of my childhood; on a city street we named Wiggle Worm Road. I relish waiting for “the look” and being the first to laugh when my unsuspecting victim has decided laughter would be inappropriate. I, who can’t bring all the pieces of myself into a room, never considered that the person in front of me would think less of me for my odd name. As I said before, I am very comfortable with contradiction. I love my name because every stranger I meet immediately knows something of me, if only humor. “My name makes people smile” I told Anne. This seemed to satisfy her.

As I turned to leave Anne and the PO, I passed a tall black woman properly preparing her package for mailing at a table away from the front counter. She would not be one of the customers who would try Anne’s patience today. At her table she was well within earshot of the conversation that had just occurred. She greeted me with one of the most beautiful smiles I have ever seen. A smile that spoke in no uncertain terms, “I think I like you”.