Jodi Hills

So this is who I am – a writer that paints, a painter that writes…

Tag Archives: name


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By name.

I didn’t really need a scientist to tell me, but the confirmation felt nice. I’ve been naming things for years. The trees in the garden. Favorite spoons. T-shirts. Cups. Not to mention people. My mother always had a special nickname. My grandma too. I suppose because as that person — the one I named — the one that when called from my lips, turned in the sea of Hvezdas or the girth of Herbergers, and existed only for me. 

I was listening to a podcast yesterday. It was this scientist, this expert on identifying species, that said it — “Nothing exists until we name it.” I repeated it over and over in my head, until I could hear the sound of my mother voice… the shortened version on the message, “Hi Jod…” The longer version when it was all heart. The lilt of it when I could feel her pride, telling someone about a painting, a book. I can hear every version still. I can name it. And the love exists. 

I was painting birds while listening to the podcast. A page full of pink. The pink made me think of Barbie. I found just the song to accompany the short video of the collection. In it, the singer says, “Hey, Barbie.” I knew I had to send it to my friend. I thought she would like it, get a smile, but what she heard was her own mother calling her. Maybe that’s not scientific proof, but it’s more than enough for me.

What are we here for, if not to make things personal? It’s all personal. And I want to feel everything. Listen. Look. Love. And call it all by name. 

Hey, Barbie.

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Still, a rose.

We went through all of my possible names at Sephora to try to find my fidelity card. Jodi Hills. Jodi Orsolini. Jodi Hills Orsolini. Even Dominique. Nothing. (We didn’t try “Goat” like they have me listed as at the winery.) It’s the second time they’ve lost it. Well, lost is probably the wrong word. My name just eludes them. And still, I exist. I could be upset about it. It’s my skin after all. And thick or thin, I still want the make-up. Thick or thin skinned, I have to stand in front of the mirror alone and apply. And I do. And, humbly, I must say, I like what I see. And I know my name. I know who I am. 

When I was little, my brother called me Tess. Tessma Luma. Tessie Trueheart. I didn’t question it. I liked it. My friends called me Jodes. Joder. Jo-Jo Starbucks. Josi Hi. Jod. And I suppose I knew it was me, not by the actual name they used, but the sound of the call, the familiarity I heard with not just my ears, but my heart. 

I remember getting off the bus at Lee’s house to play with Lincoln and Tony. Mrs. Lee was the only mom in the neighborhood to call me Tessma Luma. I walked through their open screen door and knew I was home. 

Here in France, they emphasize the second syllable. My name is Jho-DEE! At first I must admit it sounded strange. Now it swings as easily as a screen door. 

I guess it always comes down to being comfortable in your own skin. No one can give you that, you have to hear it — hear it from the filter within. I smile at the “rose by any other name” in the mirror, and decide to have a good day.

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…by any other name.

I was pretty sure that I misheard her the first time, but it was clear upon returning to the vineyard that the woman behind the counter thinks my name is Goat. 

I can’t see what is listed on the computer, but she always asks for my email to pull up our account, an uncomfortable pause follows, and then she  says, “aaaaaaah, Goat…” I try to smile while I repeat “Jodi,” both pretending now that we’re saying the same thing. Yet the transaction continues and we go home with the most delicious wine in our area. Is it the “Greatest Of All Time”? — I don’t know, but apparently, I am. 

It used to upset me. People rarely get my non-French name here. But I think it says more about me than them. I was on unsure ground, so easily rattled. The years haven’t really changed them, but I find myself stronger every day. And isn’t it the way with all belief? With strength? Possibly even greatness? It has to come from within.

Maybe everything is about timing. Watching Simone Biles displaying her gold medals, explaining how she wears her goat necklace proudly, I smile and think, me too, and pour another glass of wine. 

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The knowing smile.

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. 

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By name.

Left to my own devices each weekday of summer, I became quite adept at navigating this solo world of play. On the alternate days when I didn’t have a softball game, I figured out a way to play catch with myself. My mother bought a net that was strung between a metal square. If you threw the softball directly into the sweet spot it bounced directly back to you. I thought I was making a good decision when I placed the net in front of the garage. Because our driveway faced Van Dyke road, I didn’t want to throw the ball directly into what I loosely will call “traffic” (the random neighbor’s car).  Perhaps I overestimated my throwing accuracy. Hitting the target several times in a row, I gained the confidence to throw harder. I “wound up” and let the ball fly. Missing the target completely, the ball shattered the glass window of the garage door. 

I panicked. I looked around to see if anyone saw. There was no one there. Only my banana seat bike. It seemed to be the only answer. I dropped my glove and straddled the banana seat. Kicking the air. Trying desperately to keep up with the pedals as I raced down the hill toward the North End. The North End was the undeveloped land at the end of our neighborhood. Undeveloped by housing, but certainly overdeveloped in every school age kid’s mind that lived on this road. It was where every bad thing imagined or otherwise was sent to live. It was the threat of the unknown. The Bermuda Triangle of this small Minnesota town. Exactly the place where thieves or window breakers would go to hide.  I threw my bike into the side of the gravel pit and waited. 

It could have been hours, or a lifetime, I’m not sure how long. I imagined my story. It was robbers who did it. Certainly bad people who just wandered by while I was innocently playing. Or maybe it was one the Norton girls. Surely I could throw the blame at one of them. I kicked the dust with my bumper tennis shoes and thought and thought and thought. 

When I first heard my name called, I was sure it was the police. I held my breath. I heard it again. It became louder, but not angry. Almost sweet. Almost welcoming. I knew that voice. I got on my bike and rode towards it. My mother stood at the top of the hill. Every excuse fell from my heart and hands as I dropped my bike beside her on the gravel road. “I did it,” I said, hugging her nyloned work legs. “I know,” she said. We walked my bike back home.

Love will always call your name. Heart open, I walk the road. And listen.

Heart open, love called her name.
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By name.

Maybe it was because of the pink nose. Maybe my name selection was limited to cartoons. I named him Bozo – the first cow that wasn’t afraid to come to the fence where I stood with fallen green apples.

No cow had come on his own before. I had stood by that electric fence so many times. Afraid one would never come. Afraid one would. And on this day, this beautiful clown came toward me. Lumbering. My heart beat so quickly. My eyes moved from my hand, to the fence, to his face. Then I started to call him by name. “Come, Bozo, come…” The pink of his nose came closer. My hand reached over the fence. I was terrified, or excited – sometimes I think they are the same. I may have closed my eyes when I felt it, the roughness of his tongue that slurped the apple from my hand. “Bozo!” I screamed in delight.

I have always named everything. And everyone. I still do. The trees in our yard. The plants in our house. If I feel the connection, I name it. To be named is to be seen. And we all want that. I can hear Mrs. Bergstrom, my first grade teacher, call out my name — perhaps the first non-family member to do so. I was seen in the world. From that day on, I suppose, I wanted to hear it – my name, again and again. I want to give that gift in return.

So I dare reach over today’s fence, and call to you. I am terrified and excited. It means something. To be vulnerable. Willing. To put ourselves out there. To call each other by name. To really see each other, and connect! To give each other this gift – again and again.

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