Down Home: Woman? Nope. Of distinction? Doubt it.

Look out, prominent and distinguished women. Here I come.

According to an email that sailed through the ether and landed in my in box, this could be a very good year.

“Dear Marvknox,” the email announced. “You were recently chosen as a potential candidate to represent your state and profession in the upcoming edition of ‘Women of Distinction’ for 2015.” 

Wow! This could get exciting—possibly dramatic, even—in a hurry.

“The Research and Editorial Committee are looking to select potential candidates for our upcoming edition,” the letter told me. “We primarily focus on one’s current position and industry, however we also are interested in: community involvement, criteria from professional associations and trade journals. Based upon our research, we believe your profile fits our criteria and would make an excellent addition to our publication.”

My doggone Y chromosome

Then again, maybe not. While I haven’t checked to be certain, I’m pretty sure their criteria would balk at my doggone Y chromosome. And their art director probably wouldn’t go for my bald head and face whiskers, either. 

And, in case you’re even remotely wondering, the answer is an emphatic, “No.” I’m not planning to change anything. In fact, betting on it wouldn’t even be a sin, since gambling necessarily involves risk and the possibility of guessing wrong.

But somewhere along the way, the editors of “Woman of Distinction” decided Marvknox is qualified for their 2015 edition. Hmmm. 

Actually, you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out how this happened. …

Although someone at “Woman of Distinction” had to type my slammed-together name, marvknox, correctly in order to send me an email, someone on the Research and Editorial Committee apparently looked at “Marv” and saw “Mary.” Someone or more from the Research and Editorial Committee also apparently figured editing Texas Baptists’ news journal is a pretty good gig for a woman (if they only knew) and decided to offer me a chance at a spread in their magazine.

I wish I could tell you this is new, but it’s not. With a name like “Marv,” I’ve been answering to “Mary” and “Mark” all my life. When it comes to names, people pretty much see what they expect to see. You probably won’t be surprised to know few people expect to see “Marv.” The low point, by the way, was junior high, especially on days when we had substitute teachers. Children are not kind to a boy who has to explain to a grownup his name is not “Mary” but “Marv.”

For the record, my full name is Edmond Marvin Knox Jr. Not very feminine, huh?

You guessed it; I’m named for my father. And my whole train-wreck of a name started when my grandparents, Mom and Pop, decided to call Daddy by his middle name. When I came along, he already had been called Marvin for 23 years. 

‘Marv’ vs. ‘Mary’

Mother and Daddy perpetuated his name for another generation. But since Daddy already possessed the rights to Marvin, they decided to call me Marv. As a preschooler, I was great with it. In fact, I was ecstatic when people stopped calling me “Little Marv” and shortened it to “Marv.”

Then came junior high and all the roll-call “Mary” fiascos. But that was nothing compared to growing up and handing all the “official” uses of my name—driver’s licenses, Social Security, passports, ordering stuff online with a credit card. 

For years, I’ve used “E. Marvin Knox Jr.” for my name. It incorporates parts of all my name, emphasizes the etymological root of Marv and sounds grown-up enough.

Of course, that first initial “E” and the “Jr.” at the end wreak havoc with forms, not to mention the synapses of people who labor in call centers to expedite the work of insurance companies, utilities, banks and practically every branch of the local, state and federal government.

That last part hasn’t been a hassle for me so much as for my wife, Joanna, who handles our finances. If I had—no, if she had a nickel for every time she had to sort out and explain my name to total strangers, we could retire already.

But she doesn’t, and we’re still at work. And my job apparently sounds fancy enough that, if I really were a woman, I’d be “of distinction.” At least this year.

A few months ago, I recognized an opportunity I passed up in 1975. That’s the year I went off to college. My life would have been simpler if I had set foot on the Hardin-Simmons University campus, stuck out my hand and said, “Call me Ed.”

But then again, I probably wouldn’t be a “potential candidate” for the “upcoming edition of ‘Women of Distinction’ for 2015.”