By Any Other Name

At the Couple’s Class Annual Christmas Party, I run into an old high school classmate.

This surprises me. With the exception of Frank, my best friend during my senior year, I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of anyone from the Anniston High School Class of 1981.

So seeing Anthony Davees (Editor’s note — Not his real name) gives me a start. I put down my slice of cheesecake, narrow my eyes, and say, “Aren’t you Anthony Davees?”

Anthony jumps, as though he’s been goosed by a ghost. “Yes…”

I offer him a hand. “Mark McElroy. We went to high school together.”

“Anniston High School?” he asks.

“You were a junior when I was a senior.” Clyde walks up, so I introduce him. “Clyde, this is Anthony Davees. We were in high school together.”

Anthony shakes his head. “Actually, now I’m Anton. Anton Davis.”

“Oh?”

“Anthony Davees was my Anniston name,” Anton explains.

“Your Anniston name?”

Anton nods.

“And Anton is … your Atlanta name?”

Anton nods.

Clyde says hello, then makes a run for the punchbowl.

Later that night, I lie awake, considering the business of changing one’s name.

My college friend Marty now calls himself Martin — a handy way, he claims, of distinguishing his present self from his past. I knew a girl named Carol who, when she “got her life right with God,” changed her name to Gwendolyn. “My name,” she explained, “just didn’t mean me anymore.”

I’m not much like the Mark McElroy who graduated high school in 1981. I’m not much like the Mark McElroy who lived in Hattiesburg thirteen years ago. In the last decade, I’ve changed my place of residence, my career, my goals, my religion.

And yet — I’m still Mark.

Concerned that I’m not evolving properly, I seize a dictionary and look myself up.

Mark: a visible trace or impression, a sign, a symbol, a distinctive trait or property, a recognized standard of quality, something that one wishes to achieve, an object or point that serves as a guide.

I put the dictionary away. Happy to be me, I snuggle up to Clyde and fall fast asleep.