What’s in a name?

It was October 1990. I had just turned 28 the previous June. In the ten years prior to my moving back to Boston I had: gone to college; gotten married; gotten divorced; moved from Florida to Connecticut to California, back to Florida (to live with my parents), and finally to Boston. The apocryphal story I keep telling is that when I moved back, I was trying to minimize my life and took with me only ten books. (I wish I remembered what they were.)

I was from the South Shore of Boston but hadn’t spent a lot of time there as an adult. Everything was relatively new to me. But I was excited nevertheless. It was my desire to get back deeply into my writing after this ten year journey worthy of Odysseus. I scoured local periodicals and found several poetry readings within the city, not too far from a subway stop. And since where I was living at the time was right across the street from a station, it seemed like a worthwhile thing to do.

For the time being, having no real friends and nothing of any consequence of a literary nature, I simply sat in the back of this venue, quietly taking in the youngsters and hipsters and older folks. I counted myself among the latter category.

At the end of the reading I was approached by two guys who introduced themselves as Tom and Joe. Without a second thought, I blurted out “I’m H.B.” Now, my given name at birth was Hugh Bradley Berlow. I’m not exactly sure where the initials came from other than the desire to keep everything simple and, in essence, start my live over.

It became easy to determine my relationships with people: pre-1990 folks still referred to me as Hugh while those after that date called me H.B. No one gave it a second thought. No one made inquiries of the “What-does-that-stand-for?” nature, or “Is-that-your-real-name?” insult. Perhaps it was the arts community that cred less about what you called yourself and more about how you approached art and your passion for it.

Twenty-eight years later, I step forward into a zone of having been H.B. longer than I’ve been Hugh. Close friends, family, co-workers, and generally considerate people don’t care what I call myself. It is only the random idiot (I mean, customer) in a call center environment that believes somehow I am joking or my parents were merciless individuals.

So be it!

People of that ilk are of no importance in my life. I know who I am. It has taken me fifty-six years to figure that out. And just as I have, maybe there’s still more to unveil. The point is the name is of little significance. Yes, you’ll recognize who I am when someone says H.B. But it is more important that I am remembered for how I act and who I am than what I choose to call myself.

It is an amazing journey, one that requires no name, only that I keep my eyes and heart open to all that is around me.

Oh, and to keep writing.