“My Name is Sophrosyne. Go Ahead, Snicker.”

By J. Gregory Alderisio

My Name is Sophrosyne. Go Ahead, Snicker.

If my father hadn’t died before I was born I probably would have killed him myself. Maybe not as soon as I was born because, well, I was just an infant, but as soon as I was old enough to hold sharp objects and thrust them with any kind of force.

My dad named me Sophrosyne. Yup. Four syllables, one unpronounceable name. For years I thought she was an ancient Greek goddess which was at least some kind of mitigating factor. Lately I’ve read it’s also a virtue, sophrosyne means having wisdom, an upright character and moral strength. Guess thousands of years ago that stuff was so important the ancient Greeks gave it a name. Did I mention my dad was a professor of Greek mythology at Yale University? Lucky me, right?

You’d think my mom had some kind of veto power over names Dad proposed. She tells me they discussed lots of options. But early on my dad honed in on Sophrosyne

and kept coming back to it. My mom figured over time she could persuade him another name would be better—literally any name. Then six months into the pregnancy there was a car accident and Dad died. Three months later I arrived and Mom felt like she’d be betraying Dad with any name other than the one he wanted.

So I got named out of guilt. Again, lucky me.

Naturally as a kid you have no idea of the horrors coming your way because of one word. People will find the name hilarious so you will never get through a roll call unblemished. Your name will never appear in song lyrics. It won’t fit into the allotted boxes on many standardized forms. No boyfriend will ever tattoo it on their skin. Friends will spell it incorrectly, even I didn’t spell it correctly until I was eight years old.

My mail comes misaddressed to “Saffron” or “Sophie” or “Sappho” (a very different Greek name). Cautious people simply write “S.” followed by my last name.

People ask me if it’s hard growing up without knowing your dad. It’s neither hard nor easy, it’s simply the only life I know. From what I’ve observed, some dads are good and some suck; which kind you get is just the luck of the draw. In my case I get to choose. An absent dad means I can imagine him being whatever kind of dad I want.

There’s this picture Mom gave me of him. Dad’s got his arms out to catch a football. I’m so good with Photoshop I erased the football and dropped a picture of me as an infant into his arms. It’s the only picture I have of us together.

The ones who benefit from my unfortunate name are the kids in school who also have weird names, names just not odd enough to out-weird mine. They should be grateful to me, I took the spotlight off of their weird names. If not for me, they’d be the hopeless geek with the unpopular name people laugh at. You think they’d be appreciative but you’d be wrong. My fellow members in the wacky name club are often the first to tease me. That’s right, I’m looking at you guys—the Chardonnays, Paprikas, Hoschtons and Beruthiels of Holy Innocents elementary and Arlington Valley High.

One of the happiest days I had in school was the day I found out minors can legally change their name. Did you know that? At least in my state they can. I looked it

up. I’ve been watching that little section of the law since I was 15 years old to make sure it doesn’t change and spoil my grand plan. I decided to think about it for six months and if I still feel the same way, on my 16th birthday I’m changing my name.

Most other kids get their driver’s permit when they turn 16. Like that piece of paper will completely change their lives. Not me. The only life-changing experience I want that day will happen at the local family courthouse.

I’m still debating what name to adopt. Obviously something simple, a name that doesn’t raise eyebrows or tangle the tongue. Preferably a one-syllable name though I will entertain two-syllable options—but nothing longer. And I thought I’d stick to names that begin with “S” so I can keep my “S.” address. Sara, Sally and Sue are leading contenders.

My Mom told me changing my name is my decision, she’s not taking a side either way. Still, I’ll forge her name on the papers, no use risking her backing out at the last

minute.

So that’s it, now you’re pretty much up-to-date. Oh, except for this little bit of information: today’s my birthday! To celebrate I’m on a public bus cruising along at a

whopping 20 miles an hour and stopping every two blocks to let people on or off. The 10- mile trip to the Cook County courthouse is probably going to take a frigging hour but that’s fine. I budgeted lots of time to get where I need to go.

When my stop comes I all but leap out of the bus. The courthouse is this round building that has a huge dome painted gold. Normally I’d stop to admire it but not today.

Family Court has its own area and I walk into a dimly lit room that processes paperwork. I walk up to a window that has gilded bars across it, whether to keep me out

or to keep the workers in is anyone’s guess. A woman old enough to be my grandmother stands behind the bars.

“I’d like to change my first name,” I say as I slide my application toward her.

The woman looks at me, not quite suspiciously but something close to it.

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen. Today’s my birthday.”

One of her eyebrows twitches. “Happy birthday. May I have your ID?”

I grab my wallet to see what I could possibly show her. When I flip the wallet open, a piece of paper flutters out and lands face down on the ground. I pick it up and see the picture of me and my Dad, the one I created in Photoshop. I look at his floppy brown hair, the smile on his face and how snugly I fit into his outstretched arms. I slip the picture into my pocket.

The woman behind the bars smiles at me and doesn’t say a word, as if she has all the time in the world to wait for me to find identification.

I know I shouldn’t but I look at the picture again and the weight of what I’m

doing hits me. With one piece of paper I can wipe away the most obvious influence this man has on my life.

“Do you need a moment, Honey?”

I look up. The woman behind the bars is still smiling. I stand frozen before the bars that seem to incarcerate her.

“We’re open every weekday all year long,” she tells me. “There’s no rush. You

can come see us any time.”

The photo goes back into my wallet which goes back into my bag. I reclaim the application and walk away. Maybe I am rushing into this. Maybe I’m not quite ready to give up my daily reminder that I have a dad.

___

J. GREGORY needs to eat better and exercise more. When not staring at an iPad, J. GREGORY has found time to create work that has appeared in Please See Me Literary Journal, Coffin Bell Journal and Toasted Cheese Literary Journal.