WHAT’S IN A NAME?
My full name confounds airlines, AARP, and a special subset of male law firm partners (who insist “girls can’t be juniors!”). When introduced by others at parties, I’m all too often “Julia,” my last name mumbled-at-best, murdered-at-worst.
I have No Middle Name – which most often translates to a blank space, but sometimes earns me a second set of standardized initials: “NMN”. The occasional form crowns me “No Middle,” which I’ve learned to interpret as “magician, mid-illusion” (preferable to the empty feeling it first triggered upon seeing “Juliet NO MIDDLE Mazer-Schmidt, Jr.” – followed promptly by a reflex to lift my shirt, verifying the existence of my belly button).
Molded by my mother as female Junior and famed Shakespearean heroine, I inherited a double surname long ago chipped away by immigration officials, later expanded when my parents’ mid-70s matrimony formed my finished melody: punctuated by feminism in the form of a hyphen, my family name bears romantic if coincidental resemblance to a famed German World War II fighter plane.
Working on the development staff of a Chicago theatre, I became “JMS” to all – because “Juliet was taken [by a founding Company Member]”: twelve board meetings, ten productions, three fundraisers and countless donor events later, my actual name remained a mystery to many with whom I interacted regularly.
When things get too complicated, they’re often tuned out – which is what happens, consistently, when my name enters a conversation. Being tuned out in this way, on a recurring basis, doesn’t stir anger so much as it turns me inward – undoubtedly a key ingredient in the recipe that led me to write.
On my current block, bordering Manhattan’s last-standing forest, my name remains largely unknown. Even so, my white skin’s the shade of an unwelcome shift, a reminder that the times are, once again, a changin’ – a wardrobe of lululemon Lycra and stash of reusable Trader Joe’s bags cast me, with one look, as “part of the problem.”
I feel it. On occasion, I hear it – directly and in multiple languages! Failure to “fit” is hardly new territory for me: a byproduct of travel, it’s a sensation I’ve invited under my skin at every stage, listened to it, marinated on it, and come to realize that my body’s outward-facing narrative remains, like my name, frequent subject of whatever stereotypes others assign. As long as I keep writing, I tell myself, I won’t get lost.
At 36, I’ve come to understand and accept how others typically “see” my surface: white, privileged, healthy.
Those first two I’ll discuss, but I won’t dispute. The third one is tricky – because, while I may appear healthy, every so often my insides scream a very different story, so loudly it alters the course of my life.
It is no secret on this site that I’ve lived with diagnosed spinal disorders for nearly a decade now, psoriatic spondylitis coming to me like a wedding curse, diagnosed mere months into my first marriage and early into a fellowship as a federal public defender, the narrative evolving ever since; in both name and body, I lack a linear arc.
A lifelong athlete, mine is a body that WANTS to move – which makes mobility-related medical issues particularly punishing. Seeking clarity surrounding my medical misfortunes, I admit to diving down a fair share of rabbit holes, stumbling into confessions from women around the world, screaming THEIR unexplained pain into the void of the Internet. Some sounded a lot like mine – which bolstered my confidence to start “screaming” back, in gratitude, from my own little corner of experience, hope and humor.
Before diving in, some sensitive words on my present state:
Last August, while working nearly nonstop as a talent agent, my body began to short circuit. By the fall, I walked with a cane, later adding a back brace at the recommendation of my chiropractor, to support loose sacroiliac joints and rotating pelvis that triggered sciatica, leading to a never-ending nightmare of nervous system glitches including tremors, physical collapse, and loss of speech.
Sob-inducing pain radiated in strange spirals down my limbs, my nerves a roller coaster on fire, full of demon passengers, all with arms raised, each hand wielding a different weapon: some sharp, poking me in staccato allegro, others dragging duller instruments in a legato adagio, slow and constant to the point of inducing temporary paralysis.
My partner and I, both severely sleep deprived and terrified about the state of my mobility (or lack thereof), knew our routine was unsustainable: my center, quite literally, would not hold.
After 20+ doctor appointments crammed into a couple months, medical bills piling up with no clear answers, I made the distressing, if correct decision to leave the job that seemed to be killing me.
I kicked off 2020 applying for Medicaid, simultaneously fighting four-figure hospital bills and my now-former insurance company (attached to my now-former job).
Zooming out, the Coronavirus hit New York just as I “graduated” from my latest round of chiropractic and acupuncture treatment, my physical therapy evolving steadily into light exercise, walking the woods and performing simple yoga poses – cane and brace both shed and stored as the City settled into its seemingly endless quarantine where social media reigns.
With the theater industry on an indefinite “pause,” my career in search of its next chapter, I’ve filled much of my time studying… which led quickly back to writing.
JMSunderduress – the moniker, not the site – started back on March 18, 2012, a Twitter account formed hastily in the lime green lobby of DC’s Source Theater on 14th Street, to share results from an improv tournament: my first night hosting solo, this also marked the first time life required me to “tweet.” During a visit to New York later that year, my childhood best friend created an Instagram account for me – so I could follow *her* (also, Oprah): when asked for a username, I provided her my new non de plume, still fresh in my brain.
As of this writing, now 8+ years later, I’ve cultivated a robust Twitter following of 70 – I do, however, keep up with the thoughts of a few hundred politicians, playwrights, pets and comedians. As for Instagram, having recently dipped a toe back into the world of ballet, I continue to cultivate a curious collection of more than 250 “Followers” – a handful of which, I’m confident, are robot porn.
Social media does not appear to be my strong suit. I appreciate it, I learn from it; I’m overwhelmed by it and hope I haven’t pressed too many of the wrong buttons by accident. (Scout’s honor: I do not “like” your tragedies.) In any event, I prefer full paragraphs.
My Spinal Column, to be published by chapter, is my love note to the Internet in this #coronaissance: I find myself without income, left with fragmented medical care – but WITH an impressive collection of stories that result from my unending quest to understand my body.
For now, this is what I’ve got to offer.
I’ve framed these stories as a sample of some pieces that make me, well, “me” – and when you remove my complicated name from the equation, I think they’re also stories that say something more about the places and professional communities where I’ve dedicated my time and energy to date.
…And if you don’t remember my name when it’s done? Eh. I’m happy you’re “here,” aim to serve, and hope you enjoy the work.
xo