My creation myth

Every religion, every mythology, has a creation story. Most characters in ancient mythology also have personal creation stories. I like to believe we all have our own individual creation myths – certain unique facts about our birth that differentiate us from others.

The most interesting thing about my birth is not that I was born in a manger or I’m descended from Zeus. The most interesting thing is the mystery surrounding my birth certificate.

No, I wasn’t born in Kenya. 

The mystery is I don’t know what my name is. Nobody does.

Flashback to the fall of 2007, to my senior year of high school. My life was dominated by college entrance applications and essays. One day, in the midst of all this planning for my future, my mother dropped a bombshell.

“You should probably being filling out those applications with your given birth name.”

All my life I’d been told my name was Dylan Michael Judge-Hoff. That was the name I’d used my whole life. Reality was suddenly collapsing around me as I discovered my whole life was a lie.

My birth certificate actually reads Dylan Michael-Judge Hoff. Did you catch it? It’s a small difference, but enough to shatter the confident worldview I had established by the age of 17 (and really, don’t we know everything about life there is to know at 17). It’s also one of the few things my parents still argue about.

According to my mother, the hyphen is supposed to go between Judge and Hoff (the last names of both parents). She blames the doctor for misplacing the hyphen.

My father tells a different story. He says the doctor got it right, but that moving the hyphen was a way to ease tension over what my last name should be – especially in light of my parents’ divorce when I was seven years old. They just never bothered to make it official.

So there you have it. I don’t know my own name, and neither do my parents. I suppose I could look up the doctor at the heart of this mystery, but I doubt he has any recollection of the incident. I’m just one of a million babies he delivered.

This is why every day since that stunning revelation I wake up in the morning with a fresh case of identity crisis. I don’t know who I am! And all because of a stupid hyphen!

I’m “The Man with No Name.” Sounds like a James Bond flick, or maybe an Alfred Hitchcock film. Somebody get me an agent, I think I can sell this as a movie script!

This bizarre little tidbit of information is a great icebreaker at parties, however.

“So you just returned from backpacking in Europe, huh? I’ll bet that was fun. Me? Oh, there’s nothing interesting about me. Except that I have no name. Yes, I am like an international man of mystery.”

My solution to all of this is to give my name simply as Dylan Hoff. I leave out the rest with the confusing hyphen controversy if I can help it. Although I am rather fond of the solution a couple of friends suggested one time: just add a hyphen between each name. Dylan-Michael-Judge-Hoff. Maybe I’ll try that in the future.