I wasn't always happy with my name. First, Last, Middle, all of it.
It seems silly now, I know. But tell that to my former teenaged-self and it wouldn't have gone over well.
If I'm honest my name was never a problem. It's not as if people had a hard time figuring out how to pronounce it. You just start with the first two letters, add the next two and the last two syllables are a whole ass name in itself. I guess that's what happens when your name is seven letters: you end up with more than one name.
The reason I had a problem with my surname was then, I didn't get along well with my Dad. Regardless of that relationship, there isn't anyone I've met with the same first and last name as me.
I'll admit my middle name is as common as they come - like Mike or Jennifer. And there are plenty of people who choose to go by her/his middle name. Others don't have one at all.
This week I'm trying to convince my godson and his older brother (16) they both have extremely unique and beautiful first names. We haven't made much progress on Day Four.
Ten years ago I was asked to baptize my cousin. Not just any cousin, but my 2nd first cousin on my Mom's side. He was three at the time. I remember how excited he was that day at church, running around, laughing; so small he sat on your lap when he wanted something to eat. At that age he wasn't concerned about the way people pronounced his name. He was too little to have friends and the strangers in his life didn't mean a thing. Fast-forward to Grade 8, he's at a new school, in a new city and province. All of a sudden he says he hates his name. He's old enough to care what others actually think about him.
I'll admit the combination of these three challenges for the average kid can be overwhelming. My godson attended a private school for the first 12 years of his life. Up until this past September, he had been surrounded by the same students each and every year. He never had to worry about his favourite sneakers getting dirty because the students wore the exact same uniform, right down to the black shoes.
Maybe in Grades One and Two there were a handful of people who had difficulty pronouncing his first name; a very common name in our culture meaning, 'John'. Once he found the group of people he wanted to hang out with it wasn't necessary to correct them on the pronunciation. They know him well enough. Dare I say it - private school teachers and students are dearly acute...
We moved a few times during my own childhood. First from the acreage to our family's first home, where my brother was born a couple years later. Then we moved back in with my Mom's parents while our new home was being built. Mom and Dad built a gorgeous house for us right in the same community as Grandma and Grandpa! Then one day our parents sat us down in the living room and told us Daddy was moving out of the house for a while. I was eight years old. And since Mom couldn't afford the house on her own, we had to move again.
And though we never left the city we were forced to adapt each time. We were kids though, so I think we just rolled with the punches. When you have to uproot your whole life at 13 or 16 it's almost like navigating a secret identity. Nothing makes sense for a while and you so badly want to fit in, but at the same time you don't feel comfortable giving up all that you are. This is where I think I have a hard time understanding the whole bit about hating your name. We hadn't heard a thing about it till we came to visit them in their new city.
After moving from a metropolis to a tiny lake city, both of my cousins no longer wish to be called by their birth names. The reason is because teachers and students can't pronounce it, and it's confusing to me because their parents are divided about the way they feel.
Dad's upset.
Says he wants the boys to correct people each and every time.
Mom's being a lot more understanding, considering the number of changes the boys are taking on these days. But now there's something called, "a Preferred Name" at public schools. It may be just what they needed to feel like they're fitting in.
Each school we attended was a catholic school. Both my brother and I have unique names, and since we met people from our culture in school, they had heard our names before. My brother still goes by the nickname our family gave him, but it wasn't because they couldn't say his name. For me it was my surname, and I can remember asking Dad in person if I can use Mom's last name in High School instead. I just wanted to be called something else because I was a teenager and at the time I was angry. But when I think about it more it's because we were both young and didn't appreciate the names we were given. My mom chose my name because, well it's a beautiful name. And my brother is named after our Dad's Father (something we tend to do as Italians).
Now the boys attend public school and have to retake some of the subject courses they've already been taught in previous grades. Public school is a mix of affluent, intelligent kids with kids who haven't had the same opportunities. Public school is where you try telling the substitute teacher how to say your name and she STILL gets it wrong. The teachers seem to have less expectations than the students do. And yes, there was a bit of sarcasm in that last sentence but I'm not joking when I tell my godson to talk back to a teacher who can't pronounce his name properly. He comes from a fantastic family who gave him a private school education... he'll never tell a teacher off in his life.
But if I were actually him I'd be marching down to the principal's office to have a fucking chat about phonics.
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