Butchblog

            If you had phoned up my family home in Philadelphia and asked to speak to Robert, the person who answered would have told you that you had the wrong number. And if you shook me awake in the middle of the night screaming, “Rob, get out! There’s a fire!” I’d think, Who the hell is Rob? Nonetheless, for too many years most of the people I spoke with, were friends with, knew me only as Rob. It never felt right. It’s an okay name, just not mine.

            My name is Butch, and has been since I was born. Here’s how that happened, a story related to me on a fairly regular basis throughout my childhood by my mother and her two sisters, Aunt Elaine and Aunt Genevieve. There was a trolley strike in Philadelphia that hot August night when my mother went into labor and since my father was engaged in Army Air Corp service overseas, and my aunts didn’t drive, there was no way to get to the hospital. After a few frantic hours, a cab was located and the three sisters arrived at Mt. Sinai Hospital with only moments to spare before I plopped on out, a ruddy, screaming baby boy who the receiving nurse could barely handle. “My god, he’s a big one,” she said. My mother, probably still in shock and exhausted, gladly let the attending nurses whisk me away to be cleaned and weighed and whatever else is done to newborns. When they brought me back, the nurses were laughing. “What’s the big joke?” my mother asked, in no mood for frivolity. 

            “He weighs ten and a half pounds,” one nurse said “A new record here.” I imagine my mother groaned and held out her arms anyway, resigned to her heavy burden. “The other girls are calling him Butch,” the nurse told Mom. “You know, because he’s so chubby and all.”

            “I’ve named him Robert,” my mother, a formidable woman, stated. “He is not a Butch.”  But Aunt Gen and Aunt Elaine were standing right there and they must have thought Butch had a certain cachet because by the time Mom and I left Mt. Sinai a few days later, Robert had disappeared. I was Butch.

            And it stayed Butch throughout all my school years, on into college. Sure, every once-in-a-while a teacher would slip and call me Robert as was noted on her student roster, but the laughter of the rest of the students would quickly bring her to scratch out the given name and write in my now permanent nickname. I should mention here that I didn’t continue on in life as a big and burly sort of guy. And I wasn’t tough or mean or a schoolyard bully – well, there was that one incident with Gary Erlbaum, but that was hardly worthy of a Butch. Despite any connotations, I liked the name. You don’t question things like that.

            It was when I started teaching that things went off course. My students called me Mr. Freedman, so that wasn’t a problem. But my fellow faculty members? Well, somehow I decided that they had expectations of me, the new young teacher, that I had to live up to, a certain professionalism. How appropriate would it be to hold out my hand and introduce myself as Butch?  I thought they’d recoil in horror. “A teacher can hardly be a Butch. Are you mad?”

So I caved in and told everyone my name was Rob. Robert was too stuffy, I reasoned. And I would never want to be a Bob or Bobby. Rob struck just the right note, friendly but still professional. My colleagues seemed to accept it. The name stuck. Dammit all to hell. I became a Rob.

            And I stayed Rob for many years. Sure my family still called me Butch, and old school friends did also, but the wider world stayed with Rob. I tried to reclaim Butch from time to time, but it never seemed to take. I wasn’t forceful enough about it. Once you’ve crossed over into the straight name world, it’s hard to turn back. Still I wanted more. I wanted to be myself.

            When 12 years ago we moved to the Coast, I saw my opportunity and grabbed it. This was a fresh start in a place where I would make new friends and acquaintances and, goddamn it, I was through with Rob. Call me Butch would be my new mantra.

            Even then it took a while to get fully acclimated, but now I’m finally and proudly back. I’m too old to be bothered by other people’s expectations, and not at all concerned about being judged. Come to think of it, did anyone other than myself, ever actually judge me about my name? I seriously doubt it. Still, it’s been rough going. Even Beverly, who first met me as a Rob, finds it hard to switch over, so mostly calls me Sweetie. Other friends and acquaintances from the Rob era also can’t let go. If I want them to address me correctly, I have to keep reminding them to do so, and I don’t have the heart or patience for that. So I let it go and don’t take offense. I’m getting much better at that whole thing too, the not-getting-upset-when-you-don’t-get-what-you-want thing.

            Not too long ago, I returned to Philadelphia for my 50^th high school reunion. I had a much better time than I thought I would and mostly recognized all my aged classmates. To me, they oddly looked not all that different than they did when we walked down the aisle at graduation. We had a great time reminiscing and catching up, and dancing to Chubby Checker and Danny and The Juniors, but best of all for me, every single one of those fine old friends called me Butch – as if I’d never had any other name.