Why Did You Call Me That?

and who are you?

I was at a clothing store and going to use the changing rooms when the woman helping me said, "If you need anything, my name is Lisa." I thought, oh my god.. I’ve never met anyone with a conditional identity. What if I don’t need anything? Who are you? - Demetri Martin

Seven years old, drowning in Sonic the Comics. Had a hundred of them, at least. Stacked up next to Art Attack magazines. How I learnt to do bubble writing. Listen, I’d spend hours following that hedgehog. I was obsessed. I wanted to be part of his world but I simply wasn’t. I'd draw Sonic whenever I could but one afternoon I decided to take it to the next level. I put the cap back on my felt tip, pulled up my Arsenal FC socks and approached my mum. Looked her dead in the eyes man - I meant business. She frowned a little as if to ask what was up and that’s when I delivered. I told her I wanted to change my name to ‘Ultra-J’. Hyphenated. And I wasn’t playing. Not only would this name completely fly in the Sonic Comics - I’d read about a golfer called Tiger Woods.

“You can’t call yourself Ultra-J, sorry”

“I can - there’s a guy called Tiger Woods”

“That’s his real name”

“No it’s not - don’t lie to me”

“I’m not”

“He’s named himself after two things he likes so Ultra-J is fine”

“Woods is actually a common last name”

“So it’s ok to call myself Football Rainforest?”

“Is Ultra-J the first or last name?”

“Both. Like Prince”

Yes, I was aware of Prince at seven. No, the conversation’s not verbatim. Same vibe though. This foreshadowed my foray in confusion. Forever. I don’t think I’ve ever settled on a singular identity. I’ve had close to ten aliases throughout my life. It’s an obsession. I’ve had names like Stephen Crumble, Gnarly Ventura, Al the Native and Woofbone Wilson. My mum also changed her first name for a lot of her life and my mum’s mum had two different names so it’s in my blood to an extent. I want to settle. I really do. But it feels impossible. Because what even is my name?

I mention my first name in a loose stanza. Jordan. Two syllables. Sing them and I’ll turn. Names are songs we learn to listen out for. But ones we don’t choose. Unfortunately, there’s nothing exciting about my identity dilemma. It’s really predictable. A wanky artist kind of thing. Maybe a hint of commitment issue. What if I want to be a different person? A clean slate. Fresh record. I can’t be. I live my life bound to a tail of tales. What if I only like beginnings? And then I’ll dwell on metamorphosis. And then I’ll conclude that names are actually irrelevant once they’re contextualised. For every thrilling mononym or gently tuned skip of the tongue, there’s a tame double whammy we’ve grown accustomed to. Like Steve Jobs or Sean Paul. Will Smith. A therapist wired towards addiction might suggest that my shapeshifting is another manifestation of my deep seated lack of belonging - and they’d probably be fucking right.