As a boy I idolized my father. He was funny and smart and strong—the man could eat two breakfasts. I modeled myself after him in every way, wanting nothing more than to be a miniature copy of the original. I was encouraged by the photos in my grandparents’ house: The little boy in the faded pictures looked just like me. Having his name made me believe I was destined to be a reincarnation, and I wore “junior” like a badge of honor.
It must’ve been around third grade that I began realizing the image I had of my father was only one facet of who he was. I don’t really care to go into what went down, mostly because my father’s still alive somewhere in this city. Not that I wouldn’t want him knowing how I feel—I’m positive he already does. All you need to know is that by the time I was 9nine, my brother and I increasingly were speaking of our absent parent in the past tense.
My father was the tragic hero of my early life; I came to use him as an anti-idol of how not to be. The phrase “just like your father” became a slur—half-hex, half-warning, like being compared to the guy from “The Shining.” My name became my original sin, something I couldn’t wash off no matter how hard I scrubbed. So I kept insisting on the “junior,” but now it was proof I wasn’t Dad. I was someone else, and I’d grow up to be something different.
In college I began writing, and like any wishful young writer I fussed over my name for a silly length of time. Though I always thought dropping the “junior” made my byline less clumsy, not having it felt like giving all the credit to my ghost of a father. It annoyed me to attribute a single article, the tiniest poem or even a thoughtful online comment to my dad. So I kept using “junior” to make sure the world would know who was writing what.
Now that I’m about to turn 30, however, “junior” sounds like a diminutive. Being “Hector Jr.” feels like being “Hector Lite”—a Hector who’s smaller, with fewer calories and features, and who fits in your pocket—at half the price! In reality, no part of me feels like a watered-down version of anyone. If anything I’m the refined special edition: new and improved. Plus “junior” comes across as an unintended homage to the old man, as though I’m still wearing it as a badge of honor.
Let me be clear that I’m not bad–mouthing my father. This isn’t about me, how I think of myself and how I’d like to be thought of. You ask what’s in a name, Juliet? A person’s identity, at least a good chunk of it. Just as ol’ Samuel Clemens became Mark Twain and nobody tacks on “junior” to Obama’s name (even though he is one), I’m done adding junior to my name. It’s still part of my signature, but I’m working on that. Old habits.
As for the original Hector: Dad, I figure you’ll have to start using “senior.” I know you’ve got a few decades on me, but I’ve got more miles on the name you wanted to share. I’ve outgrown “junior.” And who knows, hopefully one day you’ll wear “senior” with pride, the father of the famous Hector.
But for the time being, this name isn’t big enough for the both of us.
Hector Luis Alamo is a RedEye special contributor.
