I nearly lost my first name the years we lived in Indiana. We lived in a county where my husband had roots. I had none. I had attended seven different schools in three states. He attended one.
Everyone knew him or his family. No one knew me. I was introduced as his wife and instantly became “Mrs. M.J. Hershberger” my friend’s wife.
The day I caught myself writing “Mrs. M.J” as I filled out an envelope holding film to be developed, I stopped in the middle of the word. I erased what I had written and jotted down ‘Joan Hershberger’ instead. I figured if I dropped off the film and picked it up later, my first names was as good as his.
Northern Indiana is his turf: People know him, not me. Even 17 years after moving out of state, I continued to be ‘M.J.’s wife’ when we visit. A few years ago after attending the morning worship at my husband’s home church, he greeted one old acquaintance after another with his mother. They chatted. I stepped back and listened. One woman kept looking at me as she talked. Finally, she turned to my husband with open curiosity in her eyes and asked, “And who is this? Your daughter?”
I laughed. Sure I’m more than a decade younger than him, but even at that point I had a child or two in college. It was a nice compliment. “No,” I stepped in, “I am his wife.” She smiled and nodded her greeting. She had her label for me, “Mrs. M.J.”
Things are much different in Arkansas. In El Dorado we established a mutual community of friends. We were Mr. and Mrs. with our own first names. I enrolled in the local colleges and obtained my four-year degree along with a few school chums that he did not know. Chums to whom I could say, “And this is my husband.” He became ‘Mr. Joan” to my classmates.
It was not a big deal as long as it was a few fellow students. Then I began writing a weekly column.
Early on we established that I would not write very much about my wonderful, patient husband and his funny quirks and activities. He quickly became my number one fan. He is the one family member who not only reads what I write but he actually asks where the paper is on Mondays, finds it and reads it. This from a man who prefers working in the yard, fixing up the house, building something in his workshop or driving us somewhere to reading about anything.
It’s a good thing he is my number one fan. He repeatedly finds himself identified as Joan’s husband. Just last week he told me about meeting a faithful reader during the day. She exclaimed, “Oh are you married to the woman who writes the columns on Mondays?”
He always confesses his association even if it does mean he becomes ‘Mr. Joan’ in the person’s mental categorization. He doesn’t seem to mind the ironic role reversal from our years in Indiana. I find it amusing but I’m not holding my breath waiting for him to begin filling out his name that way on any envelopes holding film to be developed.