My mother had two Uncle Wallys, two Aunt Lavinas, two Aunt Christines, a sister Kay and a sister-in-law Kay, a brother Tom and a son Tom. I was able to navigate this from the age of five during summer reunions on my grandparents’ farm, so I’m not sure why it came as such a shock to find two other girls named Jodi (well, neither spelled their name correctly) in my entering class at Washington Elementary.

When I shared the news with my mother, books dropped to the floor, hands raised, voice raised, completely aghast, I couldn’t believe that she didn’t share my full bodied frustration. She knelt down to become face to face. She smoothed her hands from my shoulders down to my wrists, relaxing my arms once again to their sides. I matched her slow breathing. Her lips began to turn up at the corners, just ever so slightly. She had perfected and taught me this the first time I fell from my training-wheeled bike — the art of the slow smile. Cheeks creased and teeth exposed, she said only one thing, my name, “Jodi…”  

I returned to class. Through each grade, each classroom, each teacher, I never mistook the calling of the two other girls. They didn’t, couldn’t, share my name. There was a sound to it, that was only mine. I suppose that is all I will ever hear, all I ever need to hear, when someone calls my name — the sound of my mother’s voice. 

I recently got two new plants to replace the ailing fern in our library (who was named Fern). I named them Cousin Fern, and Little Baby Cousin Fern. Watering them slowly this morning, I could feel my lip corners rising, not because I’m certain they know who they are, but because I’m certain of who I am. My mother saw to that.