It's initials

Having initials for a name means a little extra work when making reservations or ordering a latte. “What’s the name?” they’ll ask. “H.B.,” I’ll say, and before they can give me that look, with the did-I-hear-that-correctly raised eyebrows, I’ll head them off at the pass, “it’s initials.”

I figure, on average over my lifetime I've met, what, four people a week? That's more than 8,000 explanations of my name to date. And everyone, I mean everyone, asks at some point. It may take them years before the inevitable “so, really, what does H.B. stand for, anyway?” I used to do a lot of “Handsome and Beautiful, can’t you tell?” but stopped because my wife thinks that's obnoxious (although, come to think of it, that worked on her).

People love making up names for me, and they'll laugh and laugh when they come up with “Hairy Butt” or “Home Boy,” oblivious to the fact that, believe it or not, I've heard that one before (or, like 644 times before, on average). For some reason that I can't quite figure out, "Herbert Bartholomule" comes up a lot. Not sure why that particularly weird name, but somehow people are drawn to it. Go figure.

Some people have actually asked me to spell it. Quite simple, really: "A-C-H B-E-E".

Once and for all, here's the story of my name, for posterity. A few hours after I was born, my parents were still undecided on my what to call me. They're both attorneys, you see, so briefs had to be written, motions filed, witnesses called.

My mother always liked the name Alexander, but my father didn't. So, naturally, they gave me Alexander for a first name with no intention of actually calling me that. It was the middle name that was the real conundrum for them. My mother liked Henri, after my paternal grandfather and my father liked Brian, his favorite name.

So, there we were, sitting with the nurse who was trying to fill out the birth certificate. The arguments went on and on, and I imagine that even though I was only a few hours old, with no ability to control any bodily function, I was able to muster up an eye roll to the poor nurse. "Really," I must have thought, "These people are freaks, don't leave me with them!"

Finally the nurse, who was just going off duty, said in a huff, “why don’t you just use both middle names?” Brilliant. They signed the certificate. Everyone was happy. A couple of hours later, they took little Alexander Henri Brian Mok home.

A few days later, they apparently had buyer’s remorse and didn’t want to use any of the names. My dad came up with H.B. as a final compromise.

Growing up, my mother thought it hilarious to tell people H.B. stood for “human being.”

“We were just so surprised,” she’d say. “It’s a human being! Whattya know? It really is a human being!” Not the best self-esteem boost for an 11-year-old with pimples and hand-me-down corduroy pants with knee patches.

Each start of a new school year was a treat too. The teacher would call out “Alexander? Alexander?” My friends would offer “It's H.B., he goes by H.B.” Usually in unison.

When I left California for MBA graduate school on the east coast, I decided it was now or never to try to go by Alex and leave my initials behind me. No one knew me, except my then girlfriend — now my wife — and she was game for trying, so I expected that while it would be an adjustment, it wouldn’t be so hard.

You must remember that I hadn't answered to any other name in 24 years. Plus I had no idea I was already at a disadvantage. The east coast graduate school was very conservative, and just being a native Californian gave me an automatic reputation for being a bit flaky. Add to that I wasn't responding to my own name and there you go.

People would come up to me, kneel down at eye level and say, “Alex, it's time to go, dear.” Great way to start Business School. After a couple of weeks I gave up, told everyone I was known by my initials “H.B.” and left it at that. The fact that Alexander didn't start with an H just made it more clear that, to everyone there, I must have been completely stoned.

For many of my friends, H.B. is simply too long a name to bother with. So, they shorten it to H. My wife is especially good at this, particularly at parties when we meet new people.

She'll tell a story about how “H” went somewhere or she did something with “H” or “H” said this. You can see the absolute confusion on people's faces immediately.

“What's this ‘H’ thing she keeps talking about?” they must wonder. “Did I hear that correctly? Did she just say the letter H? I can’t for the life of me understand what this woman is referring to.”

I get lots of J.B.’s and H.P.’s, which has even more entertainment value in Silicon Valley, home to Hewlett Packard. One person in high school liked to call me “B,” which was nice. Really, though, I'll answer to just about any two initials. It once took me two months to correct an executive who liked to call me A.B. No one else corrected him either, so I figured why rock the boat?

How would I be different if my name wasn’t H.B.? What if people called me Al. I don’t feel like an Al, or an Alex for that matter. I might make a good Joel, but would that have changed me in some way? Made me less, oh I don’t know, sarcastic? Snotty? Entertaining?

If you think about it, my initial impression on people is, in fact, initials. In the first few moments after meeting me, there is already a mystery to be solved. At various times, I’ve been defensive about it, angry, depressed — really the five stages of grief. I’m now at acceptance. And that’s A-O.K. with me.