One time Joey said to our teacher, “Thank you, doll,” and our
teacher said, “Joey, that’s inappropriate to say in the class room.” So the whole school year Joey refrained from saying, “thank you.”
Our teacher never explained the inappropriateness of the phrase. She tried to brush it off, the incident. It was to her a quick, disturbing whip from a child, barely 13, as she was his seventh grade chorus teacher. Other students laughed and punched Joey. “You idiot! Why would you say that?” But Joey didn’t get it. He didn’t understand what exactly it was that was out of place, and why precisely it was wrong to say, “thank you, doll,” in a classroom.
From that point on, up until the 12th grade when he surprised everyone and graduated from high school, our classmates called him doll.
Or Doll Face.
Joey didn’t know how to feel shame. He laughed along with other students as they called him Doll Face. All he knew was that he gained instant popularity just by saying that one phrase. And the school had taught him that popularity was deeply coveted by almost all students who gave a toot about it.
His parents had gotten him into college. They pulled many, many strings from all different directions. And once he got accepted, his parents called it fate. He enrolled in general classes as he wasn’t sure which major he wanted to specialize in.
For Joey, college was a lot more difficult than high school. The papers and book reports required him to use more words that would fill up more pages, and the professors were far harsher graders than the teachers in high school.
His parents would help him study for exams, but even his parents had difficulty with the material. They got frustrated with Joey, and Joey felt bad for hurting his parents. His parents calmed down and said to Joey, “Don’t worry Joey; we’re going to get you a good tutor.”
That tutor was me. My name is Vincent Sloane. The reason I knew about Joey’s past and his education was because I was right there with him in high school. After high school I went to college to study mathematics, and I managed to maintain high grades, high enough to get myself out of college – graduating early – and out in the real world to become a mathematician.
One morning, Joey’s parents had responded to an ad I left in multiple universities. I was to meet up with Joey, in his home, one wintery morning.
The house wasn’t big. It was standing on humble, colonial bones. There were pots of dead flowers everywhere. But the wind chimes contributed to a sprinkling kind of atmosphere, like a rose growing in no man’s land. The rest of the house looked decrepit, but I wondered if the inside was going to beguile the outside.
It did not. The house was cluttered with newspapers and magazines covering the coffee table. The grandfather’s clock had a more than thick layer of dust coating it.
Joey’s parents welcomed me into the home and sat me in the living room. They gave me coffee and let me drink some of it as they called Joey into the room.
“Joey, this is Mr. Vincent Sloane. He is a mathematician, and he’s here to help you study. Joey. Listen to him and work hard.” Joey’s father looked at me, “I trust he’ll be fine in your hands.”
“Yes, sir.”
The parents left for the day to visit Joey’s cousin who was deathly ill. In a moment’s time, I was alone with Joey.
“Hi Joey. I don’t know if you remember me.”
“Hi Vincent. Yes I do. My name is Doll Face.”
I chuckled a little. “You don’t have to say that Joey. The bullies aren’t here anymore. You’re Joey.”
“I’m Doll Face.”
“Come on now. You’re Joey.”
“Doll Face.”
It had occurred to me that the childhood name had ingrained itself into Joey’s very identity. I didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing. But I wasn’t a psychologist. I didn’t know how to handle this situation.
“Joey, what do you parents call you?”
“Joey.”
“Would you like me to call you Joey? Or Doll Face?”
“Doll Face.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
“You like the name?”
“Yes.”
“All right Doll Face. Let’s get to studying.”
For the next two semesters, I had helped Doll Face prepare for all his math exams. He did remarkably well during his first year in college. At least in his math classes, he did. Soon enough, he told me he wanted to major in mathematics.
“Are you sure, Doll Face?”
“Yes, Vincent. I like math.”
“I hope I did not influence you in your decision. This is your life, Doll Face.”
“I am sure.”
So over the next three years, Doll Face’s parents and I filled out the papers and got Doll Face to major in math. All throughout college, I helped Doll Face as he trudged his way through the exams and papers on mathematical proofs. I saw with my very own eyes how independent Doll Face became. As the college years rolled on by, he seemed less and less inclined to ask for my help. Sooner or later, I found myself sitting beside Doll Face; he was working quietly on his assignments, while I was working on my own mathematical papers and research for the university I started working for: Doll Face’s university.
We would simply make time out of each other’s schedules to sit together to do work. Sometimes, we didn’t even talk to each other, except a “hello,” at the beginning of the session.
Then one day, Doll Face’s parents died in a freak car accident. When I found out about the terrible news, it was Doll Face who called me to inform me. He had a monotone voice when he said, “My parents just died. They were driving out of the drive way and a truck hit them.”
Quickly I told Doll Face to call the police. He did. When I arrived at his house, I saw that the officers were getting frustrated with Doll Face. I ran over to try to calm them down. I helped Doll Face answer the questions the officers needed to know.
Afterward, Doll Face and I went into his parents’ bedroom and found the telephone and address book of all of his relatives.
We made some phone calls.
The funeral was held in the cemetery twenty minutes away from Doll Face’s parents’ house, which he moved out of. The funeral was small. Besides me and Doll Face, were Doll Face’s aunt and uncle. They cried on each other’s shoulders as the Priest spoke, while Doll Face and I stood together, silent, as if we were in one of our tutoring sessions, quietly working things out.
Doll Face’s uncle and aunt took care of the finances, and I let doll Face move in with me.
Three years after the death of his parents, Doll Face and I got him to earn a PhD in mathematics.
“You did it! You really did it!” I shouted as he walked over to me in his cap and gown.
“Yes, Vincent. I did.”
When we arrived back at my house, I surprised Doll Face with a cake. It said, “Congratulations, Doll Face!” on it.
When Doll Face saw it, he started crying. At first, I immediately was taken aback. Never had I seen quite a show of emotion from him. Then I thought he must simply be happy.
But no. He seemed to be feeling something else. I think it was anger. “Vincent. I want to be called Joey.”
“It’s ok, Joey. I’ll call you Joey from now on. But why the sudden change?”
Joey didn’t answer the question. He just wiped away the tears, and cut the cake. I shrugged off the incident and ate the cake with Joey.
Later that evening, Joey said he was going to take a nap. I decided to do some work in my room, as he was napping, but I couldn’t help but be distracted by a sobbing sound. I knew it was Joey.
I went into his room, and found him lying down in his bed in a fetal position. His body shook with each sob, and when I went to pat him on the back, he swiftly turned to me, and pushed me off the bed and onto the floor. I hurt my ankle then.
When he saw what he did, he ran out of the house. Being hurt, I called the police, and there began the chase for Joey.
But we never did find Joey. At least not for the next five years.
By that time I had moved on. Not without desperately trying to contact Joey though. For the first year of his absence, I frequented every place I knew he liked visiting. I put up poster signs everywhere. But there was no sign of him.
Then one day, I was in my office, working on a paper that was to be published in a mathematical journal. Upon doing my research however, I saw a fascinating mathematical proof that astonished me beyond belief. When I saw who had come up with it, my heart nearly skipped a thousand beats: it was done by Doll Face.
I found out that Doll Face had been working from a cabin out in the mountains. He had become a mathematical celebrity. His out-of-the-box ideas shocked the mathematical community to a great extent.
After months and months of finding some courage, I took a field trip to visit Doll Face. It took me a month get to his cabin, but I knew it’d be worth it.
I knocked on his door suffocating with anxiety, though it was probably the cold air, and lack of oxygen. But it was anxiety still, because I hadn’t seen Doll Face in over five years. Has he changed much? Was he upset at me like how he was when he first ran away? Why did he run away?
He opened the door.
We hugged.
He welcomed me into his cabin. “Vincent. Let’s work.”
I said, “What do you mean?”
“Let’s work. Sit. Let’s work.”
So, for the first hour or so after reuniting, we worked silently on mathematics. Then I couldn’t help myself. I broke the empirical silence.
“Would you like to be called Doll Face? Or Joey?”
“Joey.”
“Remember, after you graduated. Why did you want to be called Joey?”
He shrugged. He spread out his arms like an eagle and looked around his cabin. It was filled with collages of article clippings – witnesses of his rise to fame in the mathematical world.
“I am Doll Face. But please call me Joey.”
Our teacher never explained the inappropriateness of the phrase. She tried to brush it off, the incident. It was to her a quick, disturbing whip from a child, barely 13, as she was his seventh grade chorus teacher. Other students laughed and punched Joey. “You idiot! Why would you say that?” But Joey didn’t get it. He didn’t understand what exactly it was that was out of place, and why precisely it was wrong to say, “thank you, doll,” in a classroom.
From that point on, up until the 12th grade when he surprised everyone and graduated from high school, our classmates called him doll.
Or Doll Face.
Joey didn’t know how to feel shame. He laughed along with other students as they called him Doll Face. All he knew was that he gained instant popularity just by saying that one phrase. And the school had taught him that popularity was deeply coveted by almost all students who gave a toot about it.
His parents had gotten him into college. They pulled many, many strings from all different directions. And once he got accepted, his parents called it fate. He enrolled in general classes as he wasn’t sure which major he wanted to specialize in.
For Joey, college was a lot more difficult than high school. The papers and book reports required him to use more words that would fill up more pages, and the professors were far harsher graders than the teachers in high school.
His parents would help him study for exams, but even his parents had difficulty with the material. They got frustrated with Joey, and Joey felt bad for hurting his parents. His parents calmed down and said to Joey, “Don’t worry Joey; we’re going to get you a good tutor.”
That tutor was me. My name is Vincent Sloane. The reason I knew about Joey’s past and his education was because I was right there with him in high school. After high school I went to college to study mathematics, and I managed to maintain high grades, high enough to get myself out of college – graduating early – and out in the real world to become a mathematician.
One morning, Joey’s parents had responded to an ad I left in multiple universities. I was to meet up with Joey, in his home, one wintery morning.
The house wasn’t big. It was standing on humble, colonial bones. There were pots of dead flowers everywhere. But the wind chimes contributed to a sprinkling kind of atmosphere, like a rose growing in no man’s land. The rest of the house looked decrepit, but I wondered if the inside was going to beguile the outside.
It did not. The house was cluttered with newspapers and magazines covering the coffee table. The grandfather’s clock had a more than thick layer of dust coating it.
Joey’s parents welcomed me into the home and sat me in the living room. They gave me coffee and let me drink some of it as they called Joey into the room.
“Joey, this is Mr. Vincent Sloane. He is a mathematician, and he’s here to help you study. Joey. Listen to him and work hard.” Joey’s father looked at me, “I trust he’ll be fine in your hands.”
“Yes, sir.”
The parents left for the day to visit Joey’s cousin who was deathly ill. In a moment’s time, I was alone with Joey.
“Hi Joey. I don’t know if you remember me.”
“Hi Vincent. Yes I do. My name is Doll Face.”
I chuckled a little. “You don’t have to say that Joey. The bullies aren’t here anymore. You’re Joey.”
“I’m Doll Face.”
“Come on now. You’re Joey.”
“Doll Face.”
It had occurred to me that the childhood name had ingrained itself into Joey’s very identity. I didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing. But I wasn’t a psychologist. I didn’t know how to handle this situation.
“Joey, what do you parents call you?”
“Joey.”
“Would you like me to call you Joey? Or Doll Face?”
“Doll Face.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You’re positive?”
“Yes.”
“You like the name?”
“Yes.”
“All right Doll Face. Let’s get to studying.”
For the next two semesters, I had helped Doll Face prepare for all his math exams. He did remarkably well during his first year in college. At least in his math classes, he did. Soon enough, he told me he wanted to major in mathematics.
“Are you sure, Doll Face?”
“Yes, Vincent. I like math.”
“I hope I did not influence you in your decision. This is your life, Doll Face.”
“I am sure.”
So over the next three years, Doll Face’s parents and I filled out the papers and got Doll Face to major in math. All throughout college, I helped Doll Face as he trudged his way through the exams and papers on mathematical proofs. I saw with my very own eyes how independent Doll Face became. As the college years rolled on by, he seemed less and less inclined to ask for my help. Sooner or later, I found myself sitting beside Doll Face; he was working quietly on his assignments, while I was working on my own mathematical papers and research for the university I started working for: Doll Face’s university.
We would simply make time out of each other’s schedules to sit together to do work. Sometimes, we didn’t even talk to each other, except a “hello,” at the beginning of the session.
Then one day, Doll Face’s parents died in a freak car accident. When I found out about the terrible news, it was Doll Face who called me to inform me. He had a monotone voice when he said, “My parents just died. They were driving out of the drive way and a truck hit them.”
Quickly I told Doll Face to call the police. He did. When I arrived at his house, I saw that the officers were getting frustrated with Doll Face. I ran over to try to calm them down. I helped Doll Face answer the questions the officers needed to know.
Afterward, Doll Face and I went into his parents’ bedroom and found the telephone and address book of all of his relatives.
We made some phone calls.
The funeral was held in the cemetery twenty minutes away from Doll Face’s parents’ house, which he moved out of. The funeral was small. Besides me and Doll Face, were Doll Face’s aunt and uncle. They cried on each other’s shoulders as the Priest spoke, while Doll Face and I stood together, silent, as if we were in one of our tutoring sessions, quietly working things out.
Doll Face’s uncle and aunt took care of the finances, and I let doll Face move in with me.
Three years after the death of his parents, Doll Face and I got him to earn a PhD in mathematics.
“You did it! You really did it!” I shouted as he walked over to me in his cap and gown.
“Yes, Vincent. I did.”
When we arrived back at my house, I surprised Doll Face with a cake. It said, “Congratulations, Doll Face!” on it.
When Doll Face saw it, he started crying. At first, I immediately was taken aback. Never had I seen quite a show of emotion from him. Then I thought he must simply be happy.
But no. He seemed to be feeling something else. I think it was anger. “Vincent. I want to be called Joey.”
“It’s ok, Joey. I’ll call you Joey from now on. But why the sudden change?”
Joey didn’t answer the question. He just wiped away the tears, and cut the cake. I shrugged off the incident and ate the cake with Joey.
Later that evening, Joey said he was going to take a nap. I decided to do some work in my room, as he was napping, but I couldn’t help but be distracted by a sobbing sound. I knew it was Joey.
I went into his room, and found him lying down in his bed in a fetal position. His body shook with each sob, and when I went to pat him on the back, he swiftly turned to me, and pushed me off the bed and onto the floor. I hurt my ankle then.
When he saw what he did, he ran out of the house. Being hurt, I called the police, and there began the chase for Joey.
But we never did find Joey. At least not for the next five years.
By that time I had moved on. Not without desperately trying to contact Joey though. For the first year of his absence, I frequented every place I knew he liked visiting. I put up poster signs everywhere. But there was no sign of him.
Then one day, I was in my office, working on a paper that was to be published in a mathematical journal. Upon doing my research however, I saw a fascinating mathematical proof that astonished me beyond belief. When I saw who had come up with it, my heart nearly skipped a thousand beats: it was done by Doll Face.
I found out that Doll Face had been working from a cabin out in the mountains. He had become a mathematical celebrity. His out-of-the-box ideas shocked the mathematical community to a great extent.
After months and months of finding some courage, I took a field trip to visit Doll Face. It took me a month get to his cabin, but I knew it’d be worth it.
I knocked on his door suffocating with anxiety, though it was probably the cold air, and lack of oxygen. But it was anxiety still, because I hadn’t seen Doll Face in over five years. Has he changed much? Was he upset at me like how he was when he first ran away? Why did he run away?
He opened the door.
We hugged.
He welcomed me into his cabin. “Vincent. Let’s work.”
I said, “What do you mean?”
“Let’s work. Sit. Let’s work.”
So, for the first hour or so after reuniting, we worked silently on mathematics. Then I couldn’t help myself. I broke the empirical silence.
“Would you like to be called Doll Face? Or Joey?”
“Joey.”
“Remember, after you graduated. Why did you want to be called Joey?”
He shrugged. He spread out his arms like an eagle and looked around his cabin. It was filled with collages of article clippings – witnesses of his rise to fame in the mathematical world.
“I am Doll Face. But please call me Joey.”
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