What’s In a Name

Essays

Jul 14

I was hosting an Open House on Sunday, and a nice young couple walked in. They were the first to enter, so it was nice to break the monotony of standing inside someone else’s house, looking out the window in anticipation. Following my own brokerage’s protocol, I asked for one of their names. She said, “Zee Thousand.” My parents failed me.

Jonathan Greene. Lame. Jonnie. Jon. Lame. Why couldn’t I have been Jox Hundred? What were they thinking? And what was I thinking when I named my kids? Basic. I am so basic. What’s in a name? Do you want to be rescued in a superhero movie by Zee Thousand or Jon Greene? No contest.

My name always seemed to suit me like a vanilla soft serve in a wafer cone. Basic. My early rap names were no better. Baby J. Mr. Money. Jx4. JQ. Embarrassing. I couldn’t even name myself properly. Or maybe I just have a face that is meant to be fundamentally named.

The transition from Jonnie (through 7th grade) to Jon wasn’t by design. I moved from Brooklyn Heights to North Hollywood before 8th grade. As the lore goes, I wore blue corduroys and a Yankees jersey to school at one point. Lame. I also had to walk home in that outfit for thirty minutes in gaspable heat, my legs swishing against each other like a rowing machine. Jonnie became Jon that year.

The first teacher to call my name called it during attendance - “Jonathan Greene?” “Here,” I said. “You go by Jon?” she proffered. “Yes,” the little nondescript boy from out of town said. Name change complete. I was Jon. Jon the Automaton. It was hard enough feeling so out of place with the scantily clothed 8th grade Valley girls parading around me like a carousel at a pop-up carnival. Shaky.

Jon stuck. From 8th grade until I graduated law school, I was Jon. My family still called me Jonnie for the most part, but Jon was the moniker from tween to teen to young adult to adult. And then it happened again, but this time of my own volition. I got my first job as a baby prosecutor in Broward County. On my first day, my assistant sent back a stack of papers for me to sign even though I had no idea what I was signing. I looked at the signature line and saw Jonathan. Tuff.

From then ‘til now, Jonathan has reigned over me and somehow captured my adulthood more fluently. My sister still calls me Jonnie. You can never escape the name that was synonymous with being a redheaded stepchild. Redheaded Stepchild was always one of my favorite fantasy sports team names. What’s in a name? Sometimes, a lot.

Depending on which strata a friend comes from, the greeting is different. Jonnie, J, Jon, Jonathan, JG, JPG. It’s all the same, and it will never be Zee Thousand.