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september 18, 2002

Op-€d

 

Why | Hate My Last Name

Bryan Johnson
OP Contributor

My last name is Johnson, a
euphemism for penis, seman-
ticalfy equivalent to dick,
prick, and pecker. But not
content to be a single word of
slang, my name deconstructs
into low, sordid meanings,
implicating me with every
sound and syllable.

“J” is slang for joint, a
euphemism for penis, as in
“suck my joint.” A “joint” is a
dive, a hole, a place to forget,
a place where two material
bodies meet, a sticky place
where surfaces grind, and a
banal name for the cheapest of
drugs.

Clearly, my name gets off to
an ugly start, with bad direc-
tions and worse intentions.

The “o” in my name has
none of the fullness you hear
as you say it. It lies about me
when it sits alone like that. It
makes you lie. Only alone, in
strangers’ mouths, is it sur-
prising. In my mouth there is
only hollowness.

The “h” is silent: a cipher
following an emptiness. A
synonym for heroin, always
down—no upside, ~— no
intake—just an endless escap-

ing breath to expiration.

The “n” is an afterthought,
affixed to end the first syllable
as gracefully as possible, not
able to admit the end of a
failed first-half, like a middle-
aged man with thin dyed-
black hair combed across his
baldness, believing he’s attrac-
tive to the 15-year-olds in
front of the Subway where he
sits and smokes all day, drink-
ing abominable coffee with
shaking hands.

Taking these miscreant let-
ters together, a “john” is a toi-
let, a yellow place for anony-
mous encounters. A john is
someone who pays to be
blown by underage girls and
boys and thinks he’s doing
them a favour. He’s anony-
mous because no one wants to
know him, a john doe of no
fixed address, with a hint of
femininity, but pathetically
soft, limp, too slack, and
essentially dead even if still
standing. No one will ever
want to know who he was,
anyway.

“S” is the slithering sound of
the snake, belly to the ground,
preying on small, soft, furry

things—the younger the bet-
ter—but definitely not high-
cuisine, though raw for sure,
with just a lingering hint of
fish.

Unlike the first “o,” the sec-

“ »

ond “o” doesn’t even pretend
to be full of itself. It lacks
imagination. It’s a thick, stu-
pid sound, the sound of dying
thoughtlessly—flat and even
more disappointing than the
first “o”, if that’s possible.

The “n” declines to an early
close, rounding off the syllable
and the word with a painful
half-hearted grunt, squeezed
from the mouth, a quiet
sound of frustrated, hopeless
defeat, ending a poor effort to
shoot low in the first place.

The last three letters taken
together bear only superficial
resemblance to the noble
“Son,” the Son of the Father.
Oh no, this son is the “son of
a john,” the spoor of a toilet-
snake; pink, wide-mouthed
desire luring the naive into its
hole.

Is it any wonder I hate my
last name?

the other press

 

Aguably one of the most famous Johnsons in the world

the Other Press’ Opinion Poll

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© pms