Let’s begin with the admission that I have more than enough trouble negotiating people and events in the actual world. I’m also nonplussed by repairs of any kind, do-it-yourself kits, maps, calendars, large animal medicine, preparing steel cut oatmeal, fractions, and breakdancing in the Olympics. The list goes on, but these are all present in the space time continuum known as here and now. In the virtual world, I might as well wear a virtual chinchilla costume and beg the trillion virtual commercial markets to skin me quickly.

Today’s flaying of character has to do with a puzzling and unwelcome message from our bank, Wells Fargo, a national bank, admired far and wide for its integrity, except when caught foisting invisible accounts on unwary customers. We joined the Wells Fargo family when we moved to Oregon and took on a mortgage. One of our best friends rode with the Wells Fargo Stagecoach in parades and round-ups across the western states. My daughter has a plush Wells Fargo horse in her collection of plush horses. 

So, our bank.

In days of yore, I could walk into a building and speak to a human; I was separated from the teller by thick glass, but I could see a person in there, clearly alive and present. During the early days of the pandemic, that branch closed its doors, still operating but not accessible to civilians. No problem; my on-line portal was responsive to my clever passwords and instantly coughed up the information I needed. There were the inevitable glitches from time to time, but they were almost entirely glitches born of my own ineptitude. 

Yesterday, however, came the most unkindest cut of all. The virtual bank recognized my password, brought up a familiar opening page, and then informed me that I was not the primary account holder and could not, therefore, get anywhere close to where I needed to go. A dozen phone calls and e-messages later, I came to fully understand that humans no longer inhabited this fiscal planet. I was, literally, screaming into the void. For the first time in my life, I tossed an ugly injunction to a recorded voice. 

Faint satisfaction there.

Not easily defeated, I’ll carry my dilemma to a branch not far from here. I’ve seen people there. Humans. The issue will likely be resolved, but the damage is done.The business of banking goes on, but my sense of self is once again wounded. 

Not the primary account holder? Not Me? Then Who?

Sure, the potential loss of our capital future is disturbing, but the demotion from prime account holder to mere observer reminds me of the puzzle that has been my identity from the start. I was born in Colombia and christened (I think) as Pedro Arango y Leighton. An ill-fated marriage ended relatively quickly, and I entered the United States a citizen attached to my mother’s maiden name, Elizabeth Leighton. She remarried and took on the name Elizabeth Wolff. I spoke little English at the time and not much Spanish, and for a multitude of reasons did not often hear my name. When my brother was born, I entered primary school as Peter Wolff. Fine with me. I liked having the same name as my brother, and my classmates seemed to find my name unexceptional.

For my sins, however, I was sent off to boarding school at the age of ten, registered as Pedro Arango-Wolff. This was notably less fine with me for any number of reasons. From that point on, I would have to explain that my brother was my brother, even though we had different last names. Bad enough. The more immediate impact was that the snakepit that was this junior boarding school was packed with boys who took great pleasure in taunting the easily identifiable other, a Hispanic kid with a Spanish name. Ok, a partly Spanish name. Some pruning took place as I left eighth grade and headed to the second boarding school, where I was registered as Pedro Arango. In my college years, I was Pedro Arango, P.L. Arango, P. Leighton Arango, and, to a small group of friends, “Boom” Arango. “Time to straighten things out,” I said to myself as my college bid me an uncelebrated and early farewell and I prepared to enlist in the US Navy. “I shall serve as Peter Leighton Arango-Wolff” I announced and took an enlistment oath under that name. Great fun in boot camp as our drill instructor loved to call me “Angry Wolf”, assuming I was Native American.

Returning to finish up at my poorly used college, I must have had a name, but I’ve lost my diploma. I assume I was still Peter Arango-Wolff as I was living on the GI Bill at that point. I changed back to Pedro Leighton Arango as I started my teaching career, but when I turned 50, I had to admit that I still did not pronounce my own first name well. I could manage “Pay-Dro”, which was better than one of my teachers who persisted in calling me “Pee-Dro”, but still. Back we went to Peter, and here we are.

Oh, lest I forget. In virtually any situation demanding the presentation of my last name, I have learned to spell it out, slowly and with emphasis on the letters as they follow one upon the last. One might not think Arango too much of a mouthful to manage, but, believe me, I’ve heard every mangled near and not-so-near miss. I’m actually quite fond of “Avenge-o”, great name for a superhero- Captain Avenge-O! Today I pick up the phone and spell it out – ARA – N- GO, always tempted to say, “pretty much what it sounds like,” but restrain myself. I’m often asked to repeat the spelling. 

So, there I was, happily opening a virtual conversation with my old friend and former mortgage holder, Wells Fargo, expecting the immediate connection to all that is mine, when the news hit home. “Sorry, pal. Not today.” Or more precisely, “Sorry Pal, You are not you today.” Whoever I was, I dialed every number I could find, spelling my name carefully when asked, “ARA – N -GO”. No dice. 

Still not me, apparently.

Once, as a sophomore, I was asked what name I would like to have, if I could have any name in the world. For reasons that escape me, I came up with “Stu Wepler”. I have not found it necessary to use that name in the intervening 62 years, but today, who knows?