Allen

For a long time, I thought his name was Allen.

That’s how my father always referred to him.

Allen.

It never occurred to me that it might not be his first name.

Even his name sign pointed me there—
an A, formed with the right hand,
palm facing out,
the thumb tapping against the left open palm.

So when I began searching—
working my way through the names in the 100th anniversary yearbook—
I looked for a boy named Allen.

The list wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t organized in a way that made searching easy—
no index, no shortcuts.

Students were listed by the year they first attended.

So I started with 1932,
looking for a boy named Allen.

When I didn’t find him,
I moved back to 1931.

Then 1930.

Then further.

If I found an Allen,
he wasn’t from Obion County.
He wouldn’t have boarded in Union City.

There were thousands of names.

And still, I couldn’t find him.

It took me longer than it should have to realize
I might be looking in the wrong place.

That maybe Allen wasn’t a first name at all.

Because in ASL, especially for men,
name signs often begin with the last name.

So I looked again.

And there he was.

Mayfield Allen.

The pieces settled into place—
the name, the sign,
the boy my grandmother had pointed to
as he boarded in Union City.

Even in my father’s video,
the answer had been there all along.

His hands begin spelling M—
M-A-Y—
and then pause.

And then, instead of continuing,
he shifts—
back to what he knew best.

A-L-L-E-N.

I had followed his language,
but not fully understood it.

So I stayed with Allen.

I still do.

It is a more familiar name,
easier to hold onto.

But now I know—

his name was Mayfield Allen.

And somehow, knowing both
feels closer to the truth.

Next: When Allen Left

— Gathering the fragments, one memory at a time…