go.Jimmy.go

Wood. It’s been my last name for as long as I can remember—which, I suppose, is generally how last names usually work.

It’s not quite as common as Smith or Jones, but there are certainly enough Woods out there that I’ve never considered it particularly unusual. And these days, I actually like it.

Four letters. One syllable. Easy to spell. Easy to remember. And, as an added bonus, it gives people the option of calling me “Woody,” which I’ve always thought was a pretty cool nickname.

But I wasn’t always so fond of it. In fact, there was a time when I considered Wood something of a curse. And I think it all started in second grade.

Sometime during that school year, our teacher came up with a list of weekly classroom jobs that would rotate among the students. There were probably a dozen or so, and each of us would be assigned one for a few weeks before moving on to the next.

Some were painfully boring like watering the plants., straighten up papers, and washing the windows.

But then there was the Holy Grail of second-grade classroom responsibilities:

Clapping the erasers.

For anyone born after chalkboards disappeared from classrooms, allow me to explain. Back in 1977, teachers wrote on giant blackboards with actual chalk, and eventually the erasers became so filled with chalk dust that someone had to take them outside and beat them together.

And that someone could be you.

You got to leave the classroom. During school. While everyone else was still sitting at their desks. For ten glorious minutes, you stood outside banging two erasers together while disappearing inside a cloud of chalk dust that probably violated at least seventeen modern health regulations.

To a second grader, this was basically a business trip, and I couldn’t wait for my turn.

There was just one problem.

Our teacher decided to assign the jobs alphabetically.

By last name.

The A’s went first. Then the B’s. Then the C’s.

You see where this is going, right?

I had already mastered the alphabet a few years earlier, so it didn’t take me long to calculate just how badly I’d been screwed.

Wood.

W.

Twenty-third letter of the alphabet.

While some lucky kid whose last name began with an A was outside happily smacking erasers together, I was probably standing there with a bottle of Windex wondering where my life had gone wrong.

It was my first introduction to the curse of the W.

Oh, sure, I eventually got my chance to clap the erasers. But strangely enough, I don’t remember much about actually doing it.

What I do remember is waiting.

And waiting.

And waiting some more.

Practically the entire school year.

Unfortunately, second grade was only the beginning. The curse followed me throughout school, because teachers loved alphabetical order.

Seating charts? Alphabetical. Gym class? Alphabetical. Handing out books? Alphabetical. Lining up? Alphabetical.

Every time a teacher uttered the words, “We’re going to do this by last name,” I knew I had plenty of time to get comfortable.

And then there was perhaps the cruelest alphabetical injustice of them all.

Girls.

Imagine walking into class on the first day of school and spotting a cute girl you desperately hoped you’d get to sit next to.

Then the teacher announced the seating arrangement would be alphabetical.

Her last name started with an H.

Mine started with a W.

Game over.

She might as well have lived in another state. It’s no wonder I became an introvert.

Somewhere along the way, I made peace with my last name. More than that, I grew to appreciate it.

Wood is short. Simple. Memorable. And these days, seeing James Wood on the cover of a book feels pretty darn good.

Maybe the W wasn’t such a curse after all. If anything, my childhood experiences gave me tremendous sympathy for the people who had it even worse than I did.

I’m talking about the Youngs, the Zimmermans, and the poor kid named Zyskowski sitting in the back of the classroom who probably graduated before he ever got to clap an eraser.

Still, after all these years of holding it, there is one small downside to having my particular name. Whenever someone hears “James Wood,” there’s always a chance they’ll look at me for a second and ask:

“Any relation to James Woods, the actor?”

No.

But if he ever wants to come over and clap erasers with me, I’m willing to discuss it.