Oi you! Yes, you!
Who and what calls my name.
Have you heard the riddle, “what is yours, but others use it more than you do?” As a boy, in my most selfish, most only-child moments, I might have said my toys! As a young man frustratedly trying to forge a career path, I am tempted to say my patience! The answer printed in the riddle books I had as a kid (get the laughs and snorts out now, I had a 101 Knock Knock Jokes book, too) was, “your name.” Strange observation, isn’t it? If anyone in earshot says Jeremy, I look up. There’s no doubt that my name is connected to me, but it’s funny how one word becomes synonymous with my whole person. I think of all the times my name has been said, and I can certainly confirm that I don’t say it out loud nearly as much as others do. On its own, I suppose this is quite an unremarkable statement, but as I am prone to do, I began thinking about my name and those who call it.
I remember introducing myself to my girlfriend’s aunt, who speaks no English, how she struggled to make sense of the noise a J makes in a language different to her own. I think of strangers, half swallowing my name when saying for the first time, hoping that they really did get it right, and that I wasn’t a John or a Jared. I think of my friends, who smile into my name when they say hello on the phone. I think of all the times my granny has said my name, all the questions, lessons, complements, hugs and kisses that started with Jeremy. I think of all the teachers calling my name in futile attempts to stop my endless chattering (I was always apologetic, but struggled to adjust my behaviour). I think of my anxious pride and fidgety fingers on the one or two occasions that my name was called out for an award. I think of the hot, suffocating dread that filled my body when my dentist called out my name, searching for his next root canal patient. For something that is theoretically mine, it seems to belong to the people that use it. It’s almost as though the person who calls my name, and the way they do it, has the biggest influence on the emotion stirred within me.
Of course, it isn’t only people that call my name. What did he just say? Oh, please. Are you really telling me that you’ve never heard a chocolate whisper your name when you walk past it in the isle? Or maybe you’re more susceptible to the siren song of Doritos? Or Red Bull? Or Häagen-Dazs? It’s a silly example, but we often say that things call us, too, right? Isn’t that how art works? I stand in front of some paint on a canvas and I recognise skill or style, but nothing happens in my heart. But when you stand in front of it, it just speaks to you. How? Maybe you can explain how you connect to the colours or the brushstrokes, but I’d be willing to bet that no matter how much you explain it, I won’t quite be able to love it the way you do. Unless, of course, it calls my name, too. I think that taste works very similarly. Cars, jeans, coffee, some things just call your name a little louder than the rest, right? I love a good chai. Why? I don’t know, I just do. It just speaks to me. And I think the diversity in what speaks to us is wonderful. But perhaps there’s a difference in something speaking to you and something calling you. Loads of cute café’s speak to me, the ones with the perfect mix of eclectic chairs and comfortable cushions practically yell. But if I walked into every café that spoke to me, I’d be a broke, over caffeinated mess. Maybe I don’t need to answer everything that speaks to me. If something calls me, though, it seems more difficult to ignore. A complex and sometimes traumatic experience if the wrong thing calls you.
I sometimes ask myself why I write. I did not study writing in university. Side note: perhaps we all study reading and writing in university. I read several texts in order to engage with my classes, I had to write several papers to express myself. And yet, there is some craft involved in writing that I continue to unearth as I spend more time behind a keyboard. I think I write because it calls out to me. Not really the physicality of writing, I can use my phone or my laptop or, gasp, a pencil and notebook. Each medium offers its own experience. But the writing, the flow of ideas from my mind, through my fingers, onto the page - that grabs me. And especially the intimate, vulnerable writing I do here on Jeremy’s Journal. I have written fiction and I often write copy, and they are all satisfying, but there is something in this particular tone or format that calls me back again and again. I don’t think it’s as simple as being good at your craft - I don’t know that I am an especially good writer. I was a good coder, but I struggled to do the work because I found almost no joy in it. It didn’t call my name. I sometimes hear people talk about their calling. I hear about the mothers, poets, teachers, chefs, musicians. Somehow, the smaller or less visible or possibly the less valued the work seems to be, the stronger I seem to believe the call is. I won’t pretend to understand why or how we are called, but I certainly hear a call to (maybe from) my writing.
Hundreds of people, places, things, ideas will speak to me in my life. It’s important to me to figure out which ones call me. I think I’ve identified some callings already, chai lover may be among them. I know that I will be called Jeremy for the rest of my life. I hope to have the opportunity to be called kind, loving, wise. I hope most of all to be called husband and father.