One short word. Two simple letters. It is direct relation to a small, aging woman I look up to and adore. It is not the woman I could dislike, but the name I inherited.

But potential shame and embarrassment came with those letters. They could poke fun or laugh at me. Heartless, shallow, judgmental children. They’re only looking to inflate their own self-esteem while bashing others to the ground if you are found to be different. “But that’s a boy name!” Petite, teary eyes downcast and ashamed could not explain my middle name. But she would never be ashamed. Tough and strong… at the same time tiny stature and gentle side. Why should I be ashamed? I won’t be. I wish I was more like her.

The pride I experience when justifying my middle name is unmatchable because of her, that stubborn, selfless, sacrificial woman. Even at age 84, she is still not able to sit still for a moment. To my earliest memories, she never once sat down before each family member was served, every dish and counter cleaned. That passion, cleaning, we do not share in common. But our names we share. My grandma’s name, Grandma Jo. My middle name, Jo. A name I am proud of. Two letters creating a name that now means more than shame and embarrassment.