“Bob, what’s the subject of this sentence?” Mrs. Lewis did a credible job teaching fifth grade at Merriam Grade School, but our class had no one named Bob. She looked me in the eye.
“Um … I’m Bill, and the subject is ‘The farmer.’”
This wasn’t the first time I’d been called by my brother’s name. Bob was about 16 months older than I and two grades ahead of me in school. Frequently, we even had the same teachers. Both names started with the same letter, and we looked similar, especially if memory had a year to fade. An occasional slip-up was only to be expected, and it didn’t really bother me. All in all, being called my brother’s name on rare occasions wasn’t so bad.
Things got worse.
After my parents divorced, Mom married a man named Bob who brought with him Bob Jr. At first, I enjoyed it. When introducing them to my friends, I’d say, “This is my brother Bob and this is my other brother Bob,” long before any TV writers created something eerily similar.
My extended family quickly learned they could call any male “Bob” and have a 75 percent chance of being right. Word spread, and everyone called me by his name. After the novelty wore off, it irritated me. I had a name, and it wasn’t hard to remember.
Mostly, it was a blow to my identity. Bob leaned more toward math and science while I favored the humanities. Worse, he was bigger, stronger and could bully me with near impunity in sibling squabbles. I didn’t like being called by his name, but couldn’t do anything about it.
One year, at a family reunion, a distant aunt spoke with me. “You’re … Bob, aren’t you?”
I gave up. “I might as well be. Everyone else is.”
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.