My father’s family has a tradition where every other generation, one of the boys will be called Steven Stevens. My dad considered this, but my mother refused. And after my three preceding brothers, Jacob is what my parents called me.

In Hebrew, the name means “to follow, to be behind.” I guess that’s fitting, as I am the youngest child. Considerable boy names were already used. Stolen by the children my parents meant to have. So to them a follower may sound appropriate. As if they knew the meaning anyway.

My oldest brother was given a middle name in honor of our grandfather. The next was after my father. But once they got to me, they ran out of people to name me after. We would all like to think we were given a name for a greater purpose. In honor of somebody. In this case, there was nothing to it. You could also say they hopped on a bandwagon, picking the most popular name.

The name is the number zero. Not to say that it is useless, but you see it everywhere without any special connections. You probably couldn’t name a famous person with the name. Nor is it elaborate, shiny, or special. Nothing that sounds unique or nifty. Sort of like cheese pizza. Everybody is okay with it, but it is nobody’s favorite.

Not that I want to think of myself as average. Wouldn’t we all want to be different. Somebody that others will think highly of. With a name to be remembered.

When bored during class, I practice my signature. I pretend that it would be worth something when I grow older. Just like every kid who wanted to grow up to be an NBA star, giving autographs to the fans. I don’t yet know what it will be remembered for, but I know it will possess value.

In hindsight, a more unique name may have better suited myself. Something like Bryson or Xavier. But my name is out of my control. I just hope that when people hear my name, they think of good things. Let it be the person Jacob represents, not simply the five letters that make a name.