My Name is Earl

Shortly before Winter Break, I had my students read Sandra Cisneros' vignette "My Name" from The House on Mango Street and asked them to write about their name.  I encouraged them to either ask their parents how they had decided upon their name, look up the meaning of their name, or consider how their name has shaped them.  To help them better understand the assignment, I told them the story of my name.  For over twenty-seven years of my life, my name was Earl.  My parents originally planned to name me Nicole, but my mother worried Nicole Earl would leave me a little tongue-tied.  So my parents opted for Jennifer.  Now in case you didn't know, from 1970 through 1984, Jennifer was the number one most popular name in the United States for girls.  I live next door to a Jennifer. The neighbor who we shared a backyard with for five years--Jennifer.  In my English Department at my former school which was comprised of twelve total teachers, there were two other Jennifers.  

I attended a cozy elementary school with one other Jennifer in my grade.  She didn't mind being called Jenny, and I was Jen. Yet I always felt my last name was connected with my first name in elementary school.  I ended up with the awful nickname of "Earl the Squirrel" aka "Squirrely Early" in elementary school partially due to my crooked front teeth and a not so nice boy.  When I entered middle school, and the four elementary schools in my district merged, there were an abundance of Jennifers.  It was not uncommon for there to be two to three other Jennifer's in my classes, and so I became Jen Earl. When I finally entered high school, I somehow lost my Jen and was just simply Earl.  At first I was bothered by this. There is no chance that any boy is ever going to like you romantically when your name is Earl, and every one in your high school calls you Earl.  I have yet to meet a pretty Earl. I felt myself clearly marginalized into the friend zone, and the only question any boy was asking me, "Earl, would you let me borrow your homework?" Most of my high school teachers even called me Earl. My high school French teacher, Monsieur Yarnell, absolutely loved bellowing my last name at the top of his lungs or would burst into a stirring rendition of "Duke of Earl" before calling on me in class for two years in a row. He was also the first person but certainly not the last to call me the "Jeneral" and salute me. During my four years of high school, I slowly became inured to my last name being my first name.  Just like eating asparagus, I eventually grew a taste for it.  When I left high school, I accepted being Earl, and even came to like it.  It was unique.  There were lots of Jennifers in my graduating class but only one Earl.

In college, I met a whole new group of Jennifers.  After introducing myself as Jen, I explained to my peers that after being called Earl for years, I didn't really respond to Jen.  My new friends quickly learned after shouting "Jen" repeatedly across campus without my acknowledgement that "Earl" garnered an immediate response.  When I started teaching my first year out of college, my students, of course, called me Miss Earl, and the three male teachers who treated me like their sister immediately took to calling me Earl.  My one co-worker and friend loved the irony of calling a 5'4" female English teacher what he considered the rightful name of a big, burly truck driver.  My students called me Earl, Earl Dawg, the Jeneral, Earl the Pearl, and I was fine with all these monikers.  

In 2004, when I married my husband, I was at first surprised by how emotional I felt about giving up my last name--Earl.  Even before meeting my husband, I always had every intention of taking my future husband's last name. I also knew I didn't want to hyphenate my name.  In retrospect, my difficulty in giving up my last name had more to do with identifying myself as Earl.  It had been my name for twenty-seven years, and I wasn't ready to leave it behind.  I made the decision to change my last name but also decided Earl would become my middle name. When I returned to school in the Fall of 2004, the district had hired a new big, burly, jovial African American Athletic Director whose name was, you guessed it, Jennifer. Just kidding, his name was Earl. My colleagues felt it was too confusing to continue to call me Earl, so they ordained me JR.

I love my current last name.  It's the name I share with my husband and my children.  Some might even say it's presidential. But I also must admit I still love when someone calls me Earl.  It doesn't happen too frequently, but it always makes me smile.

Last summer, we were driving home from our friends' house after having dinner with them, and my husband rolled through a stop sign.  Soon red and blue flashing lights illuminated the darkness, and we pulled over to the side of the road. At first I was annoyed by the thought of us having to pay a "stupid ticket for rolling though a pointless stop sign," but then felt the happy relief of not being the one driving.  The officer asked for my husband's license and our registration, which I retrieved from the glove compartment. As the officer walked back to his cruiser, we explained to our boys, the importance of following the rules.  A few minutes later, the police officer returned to our van.  He handed my husband his license, the registration, and a ticket and reminded him to make a complete stop in the future. He then leaned forward through the driver's side window and asked incredulously, "Is your middle name really Earl?" 

I smiled and shrugged, "Yep, my name is Earl." 

 He shook his head and chuckled, "Have yourself a good evening folks!"  

As I placed the registration back in the glove compartment, I turned on the overhead light and noticed the ticket read "Written Warning " and thought, "It's good to be Earl."

And So It Begins?

And so it begins?  For the past four and a half years, I have periodically flirted with the notion of writing a blog.  I set up a blogger account back in 2009 but never quite followed through with posting or finishing, well, anything. When it comes to writing, I would best characterize myself as a slacker or quitter. I can still vividly recall the purple diary I bought with my own money from The Rainbow Shop when I was seven.  It had a lock with two keys to ensure no one could access my most private musings. I had every intention of recording all of my thoughts in my carefully, deliberate second grade cursive handwriting. However, my diary writing was short lived, and the pages remained mostly blank. Since second grade, I have attempted and failed to keep a journal on numerous occasions.  When I became an English major in college, my first and foremost passion was literature, and with the exception of my one writing class which enabled me to become a writing tutor at the Writing Center, I successfully avoided any kind of creative or personal writing.  While I can write and teach a pretty mean five paragraph essay, I've never had much confidence in my abilities to write about myself nor see myself as being clever enough to write a creative piece that doesn't seem trite or contrived.  I'm more than happy to share my thoughts on the character development of Lily Bart from The House of Mirth, but the development of my own character over the past thirty-six years has not impressed me as a terribly interesting topic.
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After graduating college, I taught high school English for eight years and decided to leave my career behind for six years, to stay at home with my beautiful, bright-eyed boys. I always loved being a teacher and knew my foray into being a stay-at-home mom would not be a permanent one for many reasons. This past fall, I was afforded the fortuitous opportunity to return to the teaching profession and decided the timing was right.  I was a little apprehensive about teaching middle school, but my apprehensions dissolved after my first day back in the front of the classroom. Five months have passed, and I grin from ear to ear when friends ask me how it feels to be back to teaching.  I love my job.  I love my students. I love working with people who love their job, which is true of so many of my co-workers.

However, the structure of my school is changing next year and yet another opportunity has presented itself.  I've decided to volunteer to take on a new teaching position that isn't quite clearly defined, but I do know I will be spending most of my time teaching my students to be better writers.  I, of course, am nervous about the unknown  but am open to new challenges and new experiences.  I have decided that part of my new challenge is to push myself out of my own personal comfort zone with writing.  I want to inspire my students to take risks, and I suppose I need to lead by example.  I don't know what direction I'm going, but I'm okay with that for right now.  

I'm setting a personal goal of writing one entry a week about myself, my family, my thoughts, and whatever else inspires, perplexes or challenges me through the end of the school year.  For this slacker, quitter writer that's a pretty big commitment.  

And so it begins.