(March 2007: This Life is on hiatus until April. Until then, I hope you'll enjoy one of my favorite columns from 2005.)

I first realized I would spend the rest of my life explaining myself on the first day of first grade, Neil Armstrong Elementary School, Miss Gigliotti’s class. She calls the roll, gently sounding out names which are answered with a “here” by the sweet little faces around me. She finishes with the Z’s and asks, “Is there anyone whose name I didn’t call?” I raise my hand.

“What’s your last name, dear?”

“Keltz,” I answer, embarrassed as all eyes are on me, because we’re all sure I’m in the wrong room, and even first graders know when to savor someone else’s pain.

“Oh! I did call your name sweetheart.” She smiles and puts a checkmark on her list. “Elizabeth J. Keltz.”

“No, my name isn’t Elizabeth,” I reply, frightened, because I’m the center of attention, and pleased, because I am the center of attention, and curious, because someone else in the room has the same last name as me. “I’m Joanne.”

“I see,” she says with a puzzled look on her face, and calls the office secretary, who calls my mother, only to find out that in fact, I am Elizabeth J. Keltz - the “J” being Joanne.

Now I’m puzzled, because I’m pretty sure no one ever told me that.

I’ve redeemed myself as the kid who couldn’t find the right room, but am now forever pegged as the first grader who doesn’t know her own name. What a stupid head.

“So, Elizabeth, what should we call you?” the gentle teacher asks. “Beth, maybe?”

“No, my name is Joanne,” I insist.

All eyes are on me again. Her name is Elizabeth but we call her Joanne? Why not Beth? Why not Liz? Why not Betsy or Liza, or Sam or Bob for that matter?

It is a scene I am doomed to repeat over and over throughout my life, every first day of the new school year, every job interview, every time I need to make a legal transaction. It keeps me on my toes, because I have to constantly remember who I am in every situation. The teller at the bank calls me “Beth”, for example, because all of my banking is done in my legal first name. I need to remember to respond or I’ll stand there holding up the line. My doctor calls me “Elizabeth” (ok, let’s keep that professional), and almost everyone else calls me “Joanne”, except for a few select family members who insist on calling me “Jo” (and whom I have decided not to kill until they’re millionaires and I’m sure I’m included in their wills).

I have a hard time keeping it straight myself sometimes. I called our mortgage company the other day and after I gave them the account number, the customer service person said, “I just need to verify some information. What’s your name?”

“Joanne Brokaw ... I mean, the account is under Elizabeth Brokaw.” Silence. “See, I go by my middle name but the account is under my real name.” Silence. “I mean, Joanne is my real name, too, but my first name ...” Sigh. “Can I just verify my social security number?”

I’m obviously suffering from some weird split personality disorder. It might explain why I can perform tasks for which I seem clearly not qualified while at the same time failing tasks that I should be able to handle in my sleep.

It explains why, for example, I can handle all of our household finances even though I can never add 2 and 2 and get less than 5 (Elizabeth is good at math), and why I am always down to the wire on deadline despite the fact that I’ve written 99% of the piece weeks before (Joanne is a creative procrastinator). It probably explains why, when I’m at a screening or media event (Elizabeth gets invited to all the good parties), I prefer to talk to the waiters and waitresses rather than the celebrities (Joanne likes to socialize in her own income bracket). It’s why I can get up in front of an audience and speak coherently on almost any topic without hesitation (Elizabeth can work a crowd), but can’t call customer service to discuss my cell phone bill without breaking down in tears (Joanne has some emotional issues).

And it is the reason why, after 40 years, I find myself continually having to explain almost everything I do and say. I’m confused. Why shouldn’t you be, too?

“Yes, I know it sounds like I called you a jackass based on what Bob told you I said, but if you were there you would understand that I really meant was ...”

“I know I said I’d be there on Monday, but I meant next Monday, because I couldn’t possibly have been there this Monday, since I don’t think I called until Tuesday ...”

“When you said I could completely take over the task, I thought that meant I could print out the budget projections on purple paper if I wanted to ...”

“No, officer, I know that it looks like we’re all drunk because the passengers are hanging out the windows and I crossed the center line, but honest, I’m really sober ...”

It would be simple to blame my parents. They gave me this confusing identity, after all. But even after all these years I can’t get a straight answer out of either of them on whose bright idea it was to give me one name and then call me something else.

“Your mother wanted all of our names to start with J’s,” my father, Jim, says about my mother, Judy, referring also to my sister, Jackie. (My father, by the way, is now remarried to a woman whose name starts with a Y.)

“Your father wanted to name you after his mother,” my mother counters, “and I wasn’t going to have a daughter named Josephine. So we compromised: your first name, Elizabeth, is my mother’s middle name, and your middle name, Joanne, is for your other grandmother’s first name.”

“Besides,” she adds, “I wanted to call you Beth but your father wouldn’t let me.”

Well, now. That explains a lot, doesn’t it?

© 2005 Joanne Brokaw All rights reserved. To reprint this column please contact the author at contact@joannebrokaw.com or visit her online at www.joannebrokaw.com.

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