Yesterday, I met someone I hadn’t met before. In effect, I was interviewing him as a potential board member for the Haberman Institute for Jewish Studies. I won’t tell you his name, but I will say that I think he would make a very good addition to our board.

Towards the end of the meeting, he asked, “Are you Art or Arthur?” Of course, I responded “Both”.

But it got me thinking. I grew up as Arthur. No one in my family ever called me Art, and even though I knew it was a nickname for Arthur, I didn’t identify with it, and I never expected anyone else to identify me with it. I lived in dread of anyone daring to call me Art.

Then came sixth grade.

In sixth grade, I started a new school. I knew no one in my class. My teacher was also new to the school and, coincidentally, he was the first male teacher I ever had. His name was Ken Koger.

On the first morning of the first day of school, I was sitting at a desk in the first row. I must have been put there by Mr. Koger, because I would never on my own sit in the first row of a classroom. I’d much more likely be near or at the back of the room. But there I was in the first row.

And then Mr. Koger spoke: He introduced himself and said that he was happy to be here (or something like that) and that he knew that almost everyone in the class knew each other and he didn’t know anyone yet. Yes, he said, pointing to me (right there in that dreaded front row), “Art and I are the only new people in the room.”

I shrunk. Art? He called me Art

My life is ruined.

Everyone started calling me Art. No one in the room knew that I was always Arthur. No one called me Arthur at all. They probably didn’t even know that was my name.

Of course, I got used to being Art. In fact, and it couldn’t have been more than a few years later, I was watching a TV show, a variety show (remember them?) or something like that. And the guest was Arthur Treacher.

Today, I couldn’t really tell you who Arthur Treacher was (other than a namesake for a fast food fish and chips franchise), except that he was quite old then, and was British. Stuffy British. The host of the show, and I can’t tell you who that was (except in my mind it might of been Garry Moore; if I had to guess, I’d say that there is a 30% chance it was Garry Moore), made some sort of joke about Arthur Treacher being one of the Seven Lively Arts.

Arthur Treacher went berserk. Absolutely berserk. He was having a Ken Koger moment. His life was being suddenly changed just when he thought he had escaped any Ken Koger moments. My reaction. I just wanted to tell him to get over it.

Throughout my high school years, I was generally Art. My family still called me Arthur, but none of my friends. But as time went on, now and then I was surprised when I was called Arthur. And by that time, Arthur seemed to me my family name, not my public name. As I thought about it, I realized that my male friends never ever called me Arthur, but that girls did, particularly on dates. There must be a reason, I reasoned. But I never reasoned well enough to figure out the reason.

There were two other Arthurs in my high school class. Arthur Schneider and Arthur Silbergeld. We were all Arts, and I never even thought about asking either of them their Art/Arthur experience. I guess it isn’t too late.

So, there I was. A man with two names. And I am not sure I ever really had a preference. As long as no one called me the third leg of the stool: Artie. It wasn’t in the front of my mind all the time (or really any of the time), but it was always there somewhere.

And when I got to college, there was one person, a friend, but not a best friend, a fellow named David, a high school classmate of one of my roommates. He called me Artie. That’s all he called me. And he did it in such a casual way, yet so sure of himself, that I didn’t want to tell him the truth.

I knew there were some people who didn’t mind being called Artie. There was jazz musician Artie Shaw, originally an Arthur. And there was my mother’s first cousin Artie Weiss. We saw him now and then when I was young. I assume he was an Arthur, but my guess is that he was an Artie since birth. Too bad, perhaps, he didn’t look like an Artie. More like an Arthur. He was an accountant after all.

Then there was this young woman that a mutual friend told me to call. She thought we may get along. The young woman was named Edie and I called her and we agreed to get together. I had introduced myself at the beginning of the call and, at the end of the call, I wasn’t sure she caught my name. So I asked her. And she, quite sure of herself it seemed, responded: “Yes. It’s Artie”. She tells me I had another Ken Koger moment. Maybe so, because I can tell you that, more than 50 years later, she has not dared call me Artie again.

But my old friend Dave did. At a college reunion (I think it was the 40th reunion).

He greeted me warmly. “Artie”, he said, “good to see you, how have you been?”

You know, maybr I made a mistake. Maybe 2 year old Arthur should have told his parents he wanted to be Artie. After all, Arthur is a name that intimidates. And Art is really a nonentity as a name, connoting not much of anything. But Artie? Artie sounds like everyone’s best friend. And that’s really what I wish I could be.