the name

by Gabu Henkelmann Keyl, Manuel Iglesias Fernández (illustrator)

john is getting quite fed up with how insanely over full (overfull? over full?) his brain always seems to be these days, and with all of the questions that don’t have answers, like dying fish flopping uselessly in waterless air, 

or like a puzzle languishing in a box that he’ll never want to do because it’s missing half (or maybe more than half or maybe less than half?) of the pieces, 

and it really doesn’t help that this isn’t really the direction home is in, like, he’s not going home the fastest, most efficient way, which may or may not matter, he’s not sure (maybe what’s so bothersome about it all is just that it’s another thing he’s not sure about), 

and yeah, anyways, this town (town? city?) isn’t really home at all to john, it’s not woodbridge, is it (it happens that google was able to tell him there are nine meridens in the us and eight woodbridges), and in the end maybe that wasn’t even home because home is another thing john is not even entirely sure is really a thing to him, or whatever. 

and home is another one of those empty, stupid words, isn’t it, john thinks, feeling something catch in his throat, 

like, you can’t count on it, it’s this thing that you build and then one day you can sell away and leave forever, 

like, it’s like these ridiculous dime-a-dozen town names like meriden and woodbridge, places john remembers learning native people had completely different names for, native names that none of his teachers in school and none of the librarians at his library probably know (though google might?) that mean so much, and/or so little, 

but man oh man, everything is pulling john’s brain down, pulling his eyelids down, pulling his whole body down until he is lying down on the grass, because he is just so, very, tired. 

~~~

there is darkness, nothing but darkness for awhile, and then suddenly john’s eyes snap open, and he finds he is standing with his face a mere hair’s breadth away from a white sign with peeling red letters. community garden, they say, he thinks, but the letters are so peely that honestly it’s difficult to make out. he jumps back, startled, disoriented at the sign’s proximity, and above him he sees a flat white sky, and below him dusty brown dirt with nothing growing in it at all, and just feet away on the sidewalk he sees a person curled up in a tight ball, and then he realizes that person is him, but when he runs forward to get a closer look, some invisible wall repels him,

and he staggers back from it, nearly falling flat on his face. hands shaking, he reaches for his phone, but his pockets are empty.

a chill runs down his spine.

then a throat clears behind him, and he whirls around to see that there are four versions of him standing beside the garden sign, there are four exact replicas of him wearing precisely the same clothes as he is, pebble-prone shoes and all, except that in place of his black jacket each of them wears a jacket of a different color: red, yellow, green and blue. each appears furious and they all begin yelling at him in turn.

you fool, red john says, you’ve overthought so much that you’ve left your whole body behind!

why, says yellow john, did you ever let them take you away from woodbridge, you were so happy there and now you’ve lost your marbles—

you’re just a child, green john interrupts, i mean really, you expect too much of yourself—

if you don’t get up soon —now blue john is interrupting— you’ll catch hypothermia (or is it hyperthermia? look that up!) and we’ll all be dead! dead dead dead dead dead!

shut up! the real john shouts, loud enough that his doubles (quadruples?) all fall silent at once, casting their eyes down guiltily and in unison. he wonders if perhaps he has lost his marbles (whatever that means) and he’s lost inside his own head.  maybe he is dead.

am i dead? he asks.

very nearly, blue john whispers.

yeah, if you stay here, most certainly, green john agrees.

ask google, yellow mutters.

red just heaves one of those deep, heavily impatient sighs and closes his eyes.

there is no phone in his pocket and therefore no google (no anything) to ask. if he curled up into a ball here, john wonders, would he wake up again just like this, and just repeat this over and over again, leaving one john husk on the ground, every few feet, over and over until he covered the whole earth? he keeps reaching in his empty pocket, his heart beating ever faster, he wants to know, he wants someone to tell him what in the world is going on.

what’s going on? he finds himself asking.  who are you?

red john grumbles to himself and turns away, yellow and blue turn to each other, whispering; only green remains attentive to him. we’re the four seasons of you, john, he says. blue for winter, green for spring, yellow for summer and red for fall.

john raises an eyebrow at this very unhelpful explanation.

he tries another question: what is this place? he asks.  where are we?

green sighs.  yeah, i know, this place is kind of a hole, but it was beautiful once.

john groans in exasperation. but what is this place? he can’t help but yell. what is it, what is it, what is it?

do you really want to know? red replies, turning around again.

sure i do, john says.

red narrows his eyes at him, unconvinced.

as if punishing him for not paying enough attention, yellow pulls away from blue mid-whisper, marches up to john, and slaps him hard in the face.

ow! john says, grabbing at his jaw. what was that for?

yellow just glares at him, and blue glares at yellow.

listen, blue says, if you want to get out of here, john, you’re going to need to bury it.

bury it, bury it, the four seasons of john begin chanting, stalking toward him, balling their fists, and he swallows hard and without thinking about it starts to back away from them. suddenly his phone falls out of his pocket.

bury it! bury the phone! yellow screams, while the other three keep chanting, over and over, bury it, bury it, bury bury bury.

fine! fine, sheesh, i’ll bury it, john says, and he drops to his knees and begins tossing earth over his phone, which then begins to ring—

he opens his eyes again, now he is back on the sidewalk, he is back in meriden, and he is standing in front of an actual community garden, and he reaches into his pocket and there is his phone, and he wonders if it might be one of his dads calling, wondering what he wants for dinner, and he figures he should probably answer.

---------------------

or,

his hand twitches to his pocket, but for the moment he just stands there, looking around.

there are dozens of stray pretzels on the grassy ground just outside the garden, and countless bits of yellow, green, blue, red and clear, dirt-spattered plastic.

he looks up a little, and it’s hard to see much of anything inside the garden through the dense forest of wire and fence, and what he can glimpse looks gray and dead.

but strung around the fence are flags he doesn’t recognize, surely flags from all over the world.

isn’t it something, he thinks. all those flags represent other places, places i’ve never been, and people are always moving, and places are always changing, sometimes slowly, bit by bit, and sometimes all at once.

he turns and looks around, suddenly relishing the familiarity of a neighborhood he actually recognizes, and a car blurs by, whoosh, then four more, whoosh whoosh whoosh whoosh, then one more big whoosh, and loud music blaring in a language he doesn’t understand.

he shivers at a gust of wind, he looks up at the sky and it’s gray and dusky. maybe one day he’ll be back here and there will be something new to look at, maybe something growing. maybe not.

his phone has stopped buzzing, and he knows in a second he’ll pick it up and deal with it and say sorry for missing your call and all that. he will, like he definitely will.

but for the moment, he gazes into the garden and, for a change, instead of worrying about what the right answer is, he takes a deep breath and cranes his neck and squints, and wonders about what might be.

About the creators

Gabu Henkelmann Keyl (they/them) lives in Meriden and is a Children's Librarian at the Woodbridge Town Library.  The Name is inspired by their life and some of the things that go in in their head, as well as time spent in Woodbridge and Meriden, and a real community garden down the street from their house.  Collaboration with friends, family, and staff at the Woodbridge library helped shape the story from the beginning.  Artwork was created by Gabu's spouse Manuel Iglesias Fernández, who is Head of Children's and Teen Services at the East Hartford Public Library.  

About the library

Located in Woodbridge, just west of New Haven, the Woodbridge Town Library is a welcoming community space offering books, digital resources, museum passes, and programs for all ages. This summer, our summer reading theme, “Plant a Seed, Read!”, celebrates how ideas grow: Just as farms nourish our bodies, libraries grow stories and knowledge that nourish our minds, connecting us to our families, our cultures, and our communities.  

Let's Discuss

1. Do you ever feel like you can't control your thoughts?  How does what goes on in your head relate to John's?  Is your experience similar, or different?

2. Do you spend too much time with screens, not enough time, or just the right amount?  Why?

3. What do you think the colors in the story represent?

4. Why do you think the colors tell John to bury his phone?  

5. Looking at the way the story is formatted, would you say that this is a story written in verse?  Why do you think nothing in the story is capitalized?

6. The story ends with two possible versions, the second one indicated with a different typeface. Do you prefer one ending over the other? Why do you think the author chose to end the story that way? What do you think it says about technology and choice?

There's always more to do!

• the name Wordsearch

• Botanical Coloring Sheet

• Color Code Coloring Sheet