I
know it isn’t Rob. It’s definitely not Rob.
My
full first name is Robert. Same as my father, but I’m not a junior.
Growing up, he was Bob and I was Bobby. Occasionally, we were
referred to as big Bob and little Bob.
House
next door to us had a Robert father and son combo. They had the
big Bob and little Bob identity as well.
For
me, the normal, the comfortable forming in my mind about relationships
and names was Robert was my name, with Bob or Bobby being my nickname.
Bob the adult and Bobby the child. For my family, I would always
be Bobby. The transition, it went unspoken, would arrive outside
the family around a separation from the home. A moving away from
my parents, and a making of friends that didn’t really know my
father. Separate introductions and my choice as to whether I was
Bob or Bobby.
The
formality of all of this is a bit on the doesn’t-really-matter
portion of the diagrams. After all, I could decide to always introduce
myself as Bobby to people. There was no requirement to become
Bob. Many folks use the full formal name, some use a nickname,
and plenty use their middle name. All of which brings about a
scenario where the if and when I move from Bobby to Bob is insignificant.
Got
all that? Good.
I
dated a few girls named Jennifer over the years. Some were kinder
than others, and the majority of them good people. (If you’re
reading this, Jennifer, when I mention that some might not have
been as kind, I’m not talking about you. You were wonderful. The
frustrations were created by one of the other Jennifers.)
Funny
thing though, my memories of the relationships and how I felt
about those relationships and how I was treated are simple enough.
If you and I were to meet, and you told me your name was Jennifer,
the response I would like to give is saying “oh, that’s a shame”
before turning to walk away. I wouldn’t react that way. I won’t
react that way. But I am almost definitely thinking of reacting
that way.
I
don’t recall the first time I ever met someone named Rob. I can
think of one person from school, and that would have been around
seventh or eighth grade. I’m sure there might have been a celebrity
of some level of notoriety that I had heard about. Probably was
a Rob in my school at a younger age. What I do know is I have
recollections of feeling that somehow the name Rob was wrong.
It didn’t make sense. It felt awkward and nothing about it was
right.
Remember
when people ask you about your favorite color? And you may answer
blue or green or tangerine. And if you say blue, it’s just obvious
that blue is the right answer. It was, is and will be the best
color. Why would anyone think otherwise?
But
even with blue established as your favorite, you like other colors.
Red is kind of nice. Purple has some wonderful shades.
Then
there are colors that you can’t understand anyone enjoying. Not
only do you hate browns and yellows, the idea of anyone liking
either of them makes you question anything and everything about
that person.
You’ll
get along great with those that loved blue, because it makes sense.
People
that like red are fine. Could hang around with them, but you probably
wouldn’t listen if they suggested a restaurant for lunch. I mean,
they like red, not blue. Can they be trusted to judge a sandwich?
Anyone
that likes yellow, however, is someone that immediately creates
doubt and suspicion. You just can’t trust someone that likes yellow.
(Are
we clear on the idea I’m putting out there? You recognize it as
a joke, right? You know this isn’t literally about green or purple
or brown, yes? Good.)
Rob
is the yellow of names. In fact, instead of Rob, I’d likely be
more comfortable finding out your name is Jennifer.
Is
any of that fair? Probably not. And my guess is most people that
prefer Rob react to Bob in similar fashion. Given the scratching
the surface notes on Jennifer, I think it’s safe to say we all
have names that create immediate reactions, whether good or bad.
Robs likely don’t understand Bobs.
And,
in all honesty, Rob is a fine name. I’ll never respond to it.
Won’t turn around if you’re following me and calling out. If you
do get my attention and refer to me as Rob, I’ll probably begin
silently thinking of it as a reflection of how you don’t know
me or care about me in any way. (A different kind of awkward reaction
to the name, I suppose, but it still feels wrong.)
Several
months ago, I reconnected with my first girlfriend. We’ve started
dating again. In a relationship to the point that a proposal has
been made and accepted and a date set. It’s a lovely story. Quite
happy.
As
I began meeting her current friends, at the first introductions
I noticed a lot of them immediately called me Bobby. It struck
me that Karen and I, as high school sweethearts, dated when I
was still living with my parents. Living at home and still going
by Bobby. It was evident from these friends how she had presented
me in discussions before meetings. For her, I was Bobby.
Honestly,
after three decades of Bob, the return of Bobby felt (and feels)
wonderful. Comfortable. Normal. Bit like a hug and the warmth
of home. I’d still prefer Bob, but I’ll gladly answer to either.
So,
hello. I’m Bob. Or Bobby. Whichever you like.
(Please
don’t call me Rob.)
~ ~
~ ~ ~
A
letter to the Rob or two (or three) that I know, and to anyone
out there named Rob.
Joke.
Attempting a joke here. Funny. Ha ha.
I
hope you’re not mad.
And,
if you are, please feel free to write your own essay about the
evils of Bob. Then register your own website and publish your
own book and share it with the world. Send me a message on FaceTok
or wherever and I’ll happily check it out. Until then, Rob. That’s
a shame.