In the Name of the Father
It is no secret that I absolutely hate my name.
The irony of that is, it should not have been my name at all. It should have been my brother’s name.
Why?
It’s an Italian thing.
(Never go against the family)
My father’s name was Joseph. His father’s name was Alfonso. So when my brother was born, he should have been named Alfonso (after our father’s father).
Instead, for reasons unknown, my father went against tradition and named his firstborn after my mother’s father (or maybe himself).
Caduto in disgrazia.
Or maybe not.
Let me take a step back and look at how the name Joseph (and variants thereof) runs like a river through my family.
I will probably get this wrong. There are so many, and I apologize in advance, but here we go.
My mother’s father’s name was Joseph.
My father’s name was Joseph.
My brother’s name is Joseph.
His son Joseph named his son Joseph.
My sister named her son Joseph.
(This is where the river branches off)
My sister’s son Joseph named his daughter Josephine (unbeknownst to him, Josephine was our grandmother’s name).
My brother Joseph’s son (not named Joseph, shocking) named his daughter Josie.
Even the girls get the ‘J’ word, and I’m stuck with…
...well, we’ll get to that.
My father’s father’s name was Alfonso, the name that should have gone to my brother.
I was burdened with a name that, although it did not destroy my life, just made it measurably worse.
How did it make it worse?
Little things, like having teachers laugh when they called my name at roll call. Explain to a little kid why teachers are laughing at your name (I’ll wait).
The irony of all this is, I wasn’t even named after my grandfather.
Though not thrilled with the name Alfonso, it would have at least been exotic, lyrical, even romantic.
My name?
Alfred.
What the hell were my parents thinking? No wonder I cried when I was born. Somehow I knew what I was in for.
Alfred.
Sounds like something you’d scream when you stub your toe in the dark late at night.
When I was older, I told my parents how much I hated my name.
Their response?
They told me there were plenty of famous people named Alfred.
There was Alfred the Great, King of England, and Alfred Hitchcock, the world-famous director.
Then they hit a wall.
Even if I threw in Alfred the butler from Batman as a lifeline, that’s a grand total of three.
Even sadder, they never gave me a middle name I could fall back on.
Which brings me to Michael, a friend I had in high school and beyond.
Now, Michael is not the name I knew him by growing up. I don’t want to give out his real name to protect his brilliant anonymity.
What was his brilliant anonymity?
Michael was his middle name.
I found out years later, after seeing his driver’s license one day, that Michael’s first name was…
...Alfred.
Alfred!
He hid it from the world. Outside of his family, we all knew him as Michael.
I wish I had that same opportunity to do so, even if I had thought of it.
My middle name?
A blank space on my birth certificate.
Who’s laughing now?
