1. PROLOGUE
A rare blizzard attacked the Jersey Shore that icy Friday night, pelting Atlantic City’s
notorious boardwalk and its nearby medical center with sheets of hail and snow. I’m proud to say
that’s where I was born: in a maternity ward conveniently nestled in the constellation of casinos
that had employed my mom and most of her siblings in their wayward teens. I like to picture the
black man and the white woman in the wan hospital room as they eagerly awaited the birth of
their firstborn son, Asher. Dad probably paced around the confined space with a careworn Bible
in his large, angular hands, murmuring in tongues under his breath and occasionally piercing the
snow-riddled window with his extreme glare. I imagine Mom panting on the hospital bed, knees
bent awkwardly up, grimacing through the contractions as she relied on her habitual stores of
patient determination to carry her through the all-natural (and thus in her mind, biblical)
childbirth—a process she would later poetically describe to me as “crapping out a bowling ball.”

2. Everything went perfectly until it didn’t. Mom’s contractions woke her at 8:30 am that
morning as if she and her uterus had previously agreed on a start time. All her birthing
paraphernalia was packed so efficiently that Dad had little more to do than load her and it into
the car. Hospital staff quickly placed the young couple into their own delivery room, where they
were attended by an upbeat Italian doctor who informed Mom that her contractions were strong
and steady.
That is until 1:00 pm, when friendly Dr. Italiano finished his shift and split. Intense
anxiety can produce enough adrenaline to freeze contractions altogether, and that is exactly what
happened to Mom when the new young buck in attendance—we’ll call him Dr. Gestapo—
arrived on the scene. Dr. Gestapo’s thoughtful solution to the birthing lull was to dive into Mom
up to his elbow, roughly break her water with what looked like an oversized crochet hook, and
insist that she be shot up with Pitocin to spur the contractions back into action. The icing on the
cake was, in addition to crushing Mom’s fantasy of natural childbirth with the excruciating
convulsions of induced labor, Dr. Gestapo sanctimoniously declared that it was too late in the
process for her to receive any pain medication whatsoever.
I’m not trying to point fingers here. I’ll freely admit I’d never have the patience to suffer
the indignations of public service that hospital staff endure, but what followed sounds to me like
a strong case for malpractice. Granted every time I point this out Mom rolls her eyes and sighs,
“Hobbs, ya gotta understand. This was a hospital near the boardwalk, in the eighties, in New
Jersey.” Long story short, after watching Mom writhe in agony for the next several hours, some
kindly floor nurse decided she couldn’t take it anymore and timidly asked if Mom would like a
little something for the pain.

3. “WHAT!” Mom howled, grasping at her bed rails in a fit of desperation. “YOU MEAN I
CAN HAVE SOMETHING FOR PAIN?” Nurse Nightingale either hadn’t heard Dr. Gestapo’s
orders or simply felt her judgment was above them, because she promptly answered Mom’s
none-too-gentle request by shooting her up with whatever synthetic opioid she had on hand. Yes,
this little act of charity made Mom forget the severity of her forced contractions, but it also made
her forget that she was delivering a baby altogether. Dad stood helplessly by while Mom stared
off into space with vacuous, glassed-over eyes as one of the staff anxiously whispered, “I think
you might have given her too much” to Nurse Nightingale in a way that was clearly not meant
for Dad to hear. Mom tells it the same way every time:
“Eve. Eeeeve…”
Eve…? Mom vaguely realized that her name was being called from somewhere in the
distance, but the nurse’s voice seemed to come from very, very far away. She was too tired to
talk right now…Eve would answer the faint voice after she had a little nap.
“Eve…focus!”
Shut the heck up! Eve was enjoying her sleepy time...need to sleep. Except something
didn’t feel quite right...she would be able to fall right to sleep as soon as the dull, mysterious
ache stopped shuddering through her loins.
“Eve! You have to push!”
Push…? Yes, Eve knew that word. “Push” was especially familiar to her right
now…important even. With intense effort Mom tried to pry her legs apart as she squinted dizzily
through a mess of sweat and tangled hair into the sterile surroundings of the fluorescent-lit
hospital room, gingerly positioning each lean arm across her bed rails. OK, she was ready to
push, but push what…where? That was the question…

4. “Eve! The baby’s crowning!”
Mom blinked in confusion at the faraway voice as it grew louder. Baby…? What ba—
“EVE!” A gruff voice bellowed into her ear. “You have to push now!”
Then Mom felt, or rather saw, the meaty hands of a hefty nurse bear down hard just
below her ribs, and suddenly remembered why she was in the cold, clinical room: Asher. Her
little boy was on his way, and she had to find the strength to push him out. Suddenly feeling like
she had to “go” after the nurse’s forceful thrust, Mom sharply drew in her breath, then strained
with all her might. The timing was perfect; the nurse’s massive hands bore down again just as
Mom remembered how to push.
But bonnie little Asher never showed up.
Instead, I came into this world…bleary-eyed, bushy-haired, and completely doped up on
Demerol.
“A GIRL!?!” Dad gasped in shock as he drew my snoring, drugged little self into his muscular
arms.
Yes, Dad, a girl—clearly great things come in unexpected packages. Apparently Mom’s
first thought before she fell asleep was sheer relief at how I looked. “Not like one of those pasty,
bald critters with their veins showing everywhere,” Mom has since told me proudly. “You didn’t
look like you needed any more time in the oven, Kiddo—you came out nicely browned, with
curls to boot!” As soon as I was lucid enough to get my hospital picture taken, I mimicked a
near-perfect Dr. Evil face that transformed me into a mix-raced “Mini-Me” before Austin Powers
even existed:

5. A preternatural sense of humor, or merely the after-effects of a Demerol overdose? We’ll
never know, but I like to think this was a sign that my eccentricity came through from the get-go.
Thus my entrance into this world was a success—except where gender was concerned.
Both parents were so sure about their little boy that neither had even considered picking a girl’s
name. It must have been a rare blow to Dad’s ego to discover that he wasn’t as prophetic as he’d
assumed. But he immediately stepped up to the task of choosing a God-breathed name for me
with gusto. I can almost see him through time, hallways, and waiting rooms, aimlessly pacing
with restless energy the way I do now, his intense eyes roaming over the scriptures as he whisked
through them, even though his photographic memory had already catalogued each one. I imagine
he focused on who I would become, ready to see what name caught him, searching for his
daughter’s personality with his spirit instead of his mind. A biblical name, yes—but nothing like
Deborah or Elizabeth or Rachel. Nothing that might be too predictable in Western church

6. culture. He wanted ancient, richly dark, and exotic; something that would mark me with the
weight of strength and character he had prayed over me so many times while I was still in the
womb.
All I know for sure was that Mom immediately agreed that Dad’s choice of name was
perfect for me, even though the sound of it felt strange to her tongue. Gold and black, old as
Genesis, the word was originally the region of a faraway people in a faraway time, now thought
to be somewhere in modern-day Saudi Arabia. Its first translation, “circle,” derives from the
round path of the massive Pishon, a centuries-dry river that once created a continuous border
along the entire land. The second, “Golden sand,” comes by reputation. The desert-like terrain of
that place became renowned for producing goods like bdellium, a resin reminiscent of myrrh,
and black onyx, but even more famous for the purity and hue of its gold. Significant symbols, but
the reason why “Havilah” is so precious to me, and I think to Mom as well, is its least-known
definition. The Hebrew name “Chava,” pronounced “Eve” in English and loosely translated to
mean “Mother of All Living,” was shared by both the first woman in creation and, of course, my
mom. Therefore, the pet name “Chavelah,” a diminutive version of Chava, means “Little Eve,”
“Dearest Eve,” or, if you’re in an American mood, “Eve Jr.”
I’ll grudgingly admit that with all his faults my Dad has a knack for naming things. I love
how he used to say my name; not with the spoken-English habit of separating every syllable into
a flat, sole note, but intoning each slurred vowel with music of his own. When Dad spoke my
name, he breathed emphasis into the “ha,” introducing it with a soft scratch in the back of his
throat. Then he softened the “vi” by barely brushing his teeth against his upper lip, tripping over
the second syllable without really saying it. Finally, Dad hushed through the “lah” with a note
between a long “a” and a long “e,” ending my name as if he were perfecting a whisper.

7. But enough with the language lesson. Dad and I don’t talk, so I never hear my name
pronounced that way anymore. Unless of course I’m watching Fiddler on the Roof.
So there you go: the complete lowdown on my name and how to say it correctly. Which
means, should you and I ever meet in person, there’s no excuse for confusing “Havilah” with
desserts like “baklava” or “Halva,” past-tense verbs like “hablaba,” or body parts like “ovula.”
Yes, in spite of all my enlightened behavior, I’m still annoyed by this pet peeve. Sue me, I’m an
English major. If you have a difficult name, I’ll do my best to return the favor.
When my parents chose my name, everybody in my all-American, Creole-Italian family
hated it, which would have been problematic if my parents hadn’t decided that it was God’s first
choice for me. So they ignored their families’ complaints the way they ignored most mainstream
ideas and went about consecrating me to God’s service, Old Testament-style. Which meant that
instead of simply having me christened at a ceremony like every church-going family I’ve ever
met, my parents followed the laws for first-born (sons that is—here we go with the “we-wanted-
a-boy” thing again) Israelites detailed in Exodus and Numbers. I have no idea how they could
have accomplished this in modern-day New Jersey, since I believe accurately fulfilling the
consecration would involve a lamb or two pigeons, a Levite priest, and a blood sacrifice. But
whatevs; one of the perks of living this late in history is that we can pick and choose from a
smorgasbord of different religious traditions. Anyway, after having completed this solemn
ceremony in their minds, my parents chose to set up house with my Aunt Diana, about eleven
miles inland from Atlantic City.
A few pictures in our family albums from this time almost make us look happy, although
it’s telling that there isn’t a single one of the three of us together. Yet photos of me abound,
gazing thoughtfully from Dad’s dark arms, laughing in Mom’s pale lap, or dancing naked on the

8. bed like a small, biracial Buddha with a curly wig. I was a delectable child, blessed with a snug
button nose, a heavy pink pout, and glossy obsidian locks framing the plump caramel cheeks that
begged “Kiss me.” The only thing about my face that hasn’t changed in adulthood is its profound
stare, like hot bowls of raw coffee, which earned me my first nickname: Ochi Grossi…Italian for
“Big Eyes.”
Other popular epithets included “Tomato Cheeks,” “Kewpie Doll,” “Cheese Neck,” and
“Fatty”—my least favorite and therefore the most memorable. It took me years to forgive my
parents for that one, although both maintain that it was only used with the utmost affection.
Luckily none of these stuck until “Hobbs,” Mom’s down-to-earth, slightly sassy nickname for
me that family could easily pronounce and which I’ve told most people was inspired by Bill
Watterson’s classic comic strip. However, Mom insists that she came up with “Hobbs” all by
herself after playing around with various configurations of my name—after all she did always
spell it without the “e”—but has she ever definitively proven this? No. So be aware that if you
and I ever meet in person I’ll stick with the Calvin and Hobbes version because I like it better.
No one in my family is eager to discuss what they were up to in their dim, baby-Christian
days, so Aunt Diana will just have to forgive me for telling you that she used to dabble in
astrology and had my natal chart read when I was born. Personally, I don’t approve of looking
for signs in the stars when humans seem to have enough trouble focusing on what’s right in front
of them. Yet I also can’t deny that the man I love was born under a star, and that it served a
specific purpose in his life. So who knows what it all means, but my natal chart revealed a
“stellium:” five out of seven planets in the House of Such-n-Such, which the chart-reader
interpreted to mean that my skewed destiny would be solely defined by radical lessons in giving
and receiving Love. Granted I think all our lives should be described in those terms, but it would

9. feel nice to believe that these vague planetary symbols give my unusual life-choices some
context, grounds them in some way. If I simply had to learn the arduous practices of compassion
we all do, good enough; if I was always fated to fall in Love with Love himself, even better.
Cute story, right? I don’t remember any of it. These moments belong to my parents, not
to me. They only exist in my mind to the extent that they’ve been recounted over time, like an
unsure origin story that may or may not be relevant to who I’ve become. Here’s what I do
remember…