As I started fourth grade, my little brother entered kindergarten. When our mom picked him up at the end of his first day, the teacher said, “I recommend you have your son’s hearing tested right away.”
Mom shared that story at dinner, and Dad and I both looked dubious. Jack seemed to hear perfectly well.
I became the unofficial hearing tester — covering my mouth while saying his name, whispering it, standing behind him and even going into the next room to call him.
Jack kept answering, “What?,” with increasing irritation. And we pretty much forgot about the issue.
Then, a few days later, Jack came home with a note from the teacher: “Have you arranged to have John’s hearing tested?” And it all became clear. The name on his birth certificate was indeed “John,” but he had never, ever been called that. From birth, he was “Jack” or “Jackie.”
Mom explained all that to my brother and told him she’d set the teacher straight: She simply needed to call him “Jack” and he’d answer.
“No!” came the resounding response. “My big-boy name is John, and everybody should call me that. Don’t call me ‘Jack’ anymore!”
We all tried to comply because we got an immediate reprimand from John if we got his name wrong. He was also quick to correct friends and relatives. And to this day, many decades later, he is my brother John. His hearing is still pretty keen.
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