Urban Thought Collective

The first time she ever caught me doing this, my daughter was really perplexed. A notorious ear-hustler, with a future in the CIA at the rate she’s going, she routinely interrogates me about my phone conversations as soon as I put the receiver down.

“Dad, why did you tell that lady that your name was Joe?” she asked, nose crinkled up, head cocked to the side, and being scratched by the index finger of her right hand. I told her that it was just easier that way. Now before you lambast me for being a horrible parent and setting a horrible example, allow me to give you the proper context.

I have one of those names. It seems easy enough. It sounds just like it is spelled. Maybe the problem is with people hearing me say it. Maybe I mumble. Maybe they are too conditioned for me respond with something like “Hi, I’m Darryl/Demetrius/Devin/Justin/Chester.” I don’t know. Blame my parents. Blame my Uncle Dennis. Blame the 1970s. I’ve never really heard the entire blow-by-blow of how he came to get naming rights, but my dad’s youngest brother Dennis, then a student at Harvard, allegedly offered up my gem of a first name and my mother loved it. I’m lucky that naming male first borns wasn’t as sought after as naming many major league stadiums these days. I might be called Network Associates, Invesco, Monster.com or some other deplorable label that saps every bit of tradition out of a place like the Coliseum, Mile High or The ‘Stick‘!

Fearing that I’d be called June-Bug, my mom vetoed the John Jr. idea as well as one that would have served the dual purpose of honoring some of my dad’s lifelong friends and speaking to my bi-racial lineage. As a result Juan Antonio was tossed aside as well. Met with opposition at every turn, my dad probably threw his hands up and let lil’ bro offer up his suggestion.

As it turns out, my name IS indeed very popular. That is, if I were born about 12,000 miles to the East, in Ethiopia or Eritrea. I went the first 16 years of my life, never encountering a namesake, until I met a kid from Ethiopia with the same name. I’ve run into maybe 2 or 3 since and like clockwork, they’ve all been from there. Ethiopians and Eritreans are always very excited when they learn my name. Apparently, it’s like being named Mike or Steve or Joe here in the States. It has never earned me any points with the beautiful women from that part of the world, but that’s another story.

As usual, I’ve taken you on quite a tangent. A few weeks ago, under my daughter’s watchful eye, and her bionic ears at the ready, I ordered something using my real name. I don’t know why I did it. It usually wastes a good 30-45 seconds in repeating it 4 or 5 times and then spelling it and they butchered it as usual. I must’ve had something on my mind. Who knows? When we went to pick up whatever it was that I had ordered, my daughter smiled at me as they called out “Justin! Your order’s ready….” Fast forwarding to tonight, we were driving down the highway about 20 minutes away from Zachary’s Chicago Style Pizza in Oakland and I called in my order because cooking was no longer an option at that hour.

I wondered if my daughter were using some high-tech, bluetooth tapping device and thought I heard some clicking sounds alerting me that there were indeed another little set of ears clued in (or perhaps I’m as paranoid as a Cold War politician), but I was acutely aware this time.

Berkeley-ish College Kid (BCK): Hello Zachary’s can you hold?………..What would you like?”

Me: Yes………………………….. Medium, deep dish, pepperoni and sausage.

BCK: What size?

Me: Uh…medium!

BCK: Ok…name?

Here it was, the moment of truth. In these instances, I like to keep it simple. Mono-syllabic, hard consonant sounds if possible…very anglo, very common.

Me: Joe!

Joe is the gold standard in mono-syllabic,anglo, any American can get it right names. The rest of the call would go off without a hitch. In 20 minutes, I would arrive at Zachary’s, walk in to claim my pie and stroll out of there. Or so I thought.

BCK: Last initial?

Me: D! (I wasn’t expecting this one, so it momentarily threw me for a loop, but I think I salvaged it fairly well. After all, D should be okay. It might be confused with B, or G, but it was still to follow Joe, so it shouldn’t really matter.)

When I got to the counter, no one could find a medium, deep-dish pepperoni and sausage for Joe. We went over each detail again, one by one. I told them it was a medium pizza. I told them it was deep dish. I told them that it had both pepperoni and sausage. How could this happen? My plan was infallible, save for the possible exception of human error. But I mean, c’mon…Joe? It’s a three letter name. It’s one syllable. Any 2-year old can get Joe right.

Well, they finally found my medium, deep-dish, pepperoni and sausage. It only took about 10 minutes of them getting frustrated, and me getting frustrated, but I lived to tell about it. As usual, Zachary’s made a delicious pie that my kids and I enjoyed tremendously. Back at the house when my daughter went to get herself a second piece, we finally got the good laugh that was a fitting end to our ordeal. Mr. BCK totally spaced when he was on the phone with me.

Either that or his hand was on auto-pilot as it wrote down Bill B. on the receipt.

Destah Owens is a single father of two from Northern California and proud UCLA Bruin who travels the world for his job as a computer engineer. His blog, “Soufflés in Saigon,” is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.