Mang Jun. I wasn’t born with that name. I’ve been called by many names in my lifetime. My parents christened me Artemio Jr. and for a long time, I thought they didn’t like me. They called me Nonoy, which, somebody in the family once told me, was how I pronounced Junior as little boy. In truth, it’s one of the most common boy’s nicknames in the South.

 

In grade school, I was called by my formal name, Artemio. I didn’t like that name because I would have preferred to be named Virgilio, Rodolfo or Mario, the names my parents gave to my three brothers. But over the years, I came to love Artemio because it made me feel like I was the chosen one—after two sons, my father chose me to be his junior. This gave me the motivation to live up to my father’s expectations.

 

Years later, someone, in a rather condescending manner, said Artemio sounded like a sexy Spanish waiter. But the name actually originated from a less masculine figure in Greek mythology. Artemis, in fact, was a woman, the goddess of the hunt, chastity and virginity, among other things.

 

As I announced myself at the press center of the 2004 Olympics in Athens, two Greek receptionists started giggling, probably thinking I didn’t look remotely like the goddess I was named after. Artemis had a twin brother, Apollo, but my father and my grandfather probably didn’t care much for Greek mythology. Otherwise, I would be known today as Apollo Engracia Jr., which doesn’t sound quite right. (And I shudder at the thought of what my nickname would have been.)

 

I went by my formal name through grade school until high school, where the girls, not knowing what my nickname was, decided to call me Temmy, which made my hair stand on end in embarrassment.

 

‘Tukayo’

 

It was in college that my friends started calling me Jun, simply because there was a more famous campus figure named Nonoy. Somebody tried calling me Art, but I cringed at the sound of it. (Former Supreme Court Chief Justice Artemio Panganiban once called me “Tukayo” when he was president of the Inquirer.)

 

As news editor of the Inquirer, I used to receive mail addressed to Art Engracia, Jun N. Gracia, Juning Gracia and even Jun Encarnacion. I hated it when the letter opened with “Dear Art.”

 

Once, I attended a forum where the moderator kept referring to me as Mr. Encarnacion. As a sportswriter, I once covered a press conference where I was identified as Jun Arazas, confusing my name with that of the basketball player Engracio Arazas. Not too long ago, I kept getting text messages addressing me as Sec. Art, and later as Cong. Art, and realized that the sender mistook me for then Agriculture Secretary and now Bohol representative Arthur Yap.

 

Through the years as a journalist, I went by the name Jun. In the office, some people would call me Mr. Engracia, Sir Jun or Boss Jun. But there were other Juns in the office, so colleagues came to call me Engra to distinguish me from the other Sir Jun in the newsroom, whose formal name is Pergentino.

 

Things changed in 2010 when I started doing triathlons. My coach, Jojo ‘Jomac’ Macalintal, first called me Sir Jun, but changed this to Mang Jun when it became apparent that I would forever be the oldest member of our Team Trimac. Teammates, including some as old as my youngest kids, also called me Manong Jun or Kuyang Jun. Somebody put some style into it by called me Mang J or Manong J. A show biz celebrity once called me “Tatay!” at the top of her voice in the middle of a TV interview before the start of the Ironman 70.3 race in Cebu. In 2016, when I fulfilled my dream of finishing a full Ironman triathlon, teammates elevated my title to IronMang Jun.

 

I used to hate being called Mang Jun. It made me feel ordinary, like the fishball vendor on campus (Mang Larry); or ubiquitous, like the fastfood chain of chicken and unlimited rice fame (Mang Inasal); or lecherous, like the sex fiend of internet notoriety (Mang Kanor). Worst of all, it made me feel old. It was first used in the triathlon community, where the gods declare you to be a year older in January even when your next birthday is still 11 months away.

 

Old? I was in denial for a long time. Inquirer Lifestyle editor Thelma San Juan had asked me to write for the Seniors page long before I finally accepted, grudgingly at first, that there was no stopping the march of time. Acceptance made me realize Mang Jun had a nice ring to it.

 

I soon embraced the idea that ‘‘Mang” was an honorific attached to one’s name, indicating respect and high stature, even reverence, much like young and aspiring journalists of four decades ago looked up to Neal Cruz, the late columnist, newspaper editor and more importantly my mentor, as Mang Neal.

 

Hey, it’s not too bad being called Mang Jun, I convinced myself. The name has character. I began to like it, especially with the informality and anonymity that go with it. (A lot of people in the triathlon community had known me for years without knowing what I did for a living. They couldn’t care less if I was a barber, a university professor or the newspaper editor that I had been for most of my life.) Pretty soon, I started to love it.

 

I still like my formal name, though. Teammates would chant “AR-TEEM-YO!” to announce my arrival at every finish line and to signal the end of the race for the team—I was always the last member of the team to finish. So often would this chant be heard that children of Trimac members thought this was the team cheer, and so they would chant “AR-TEEM-YO!” in games they play at Christmas parties and other team gatherings.

 

At home, I’m called Tatay, Daddy or Papa. But years ago, ‘‘Artemio” was used for special occasions, as in ‘’Hoy Artemio! It’s dinner time!” And my toddler son Martin, who could hardly speak, would repeat the phrase like a parrot: ‘‘Hoy, Titimo!”

 

I just love the names people call me.