Living With Your Weird Name

From a very young age, I realized there was something a little different about me than most kids. Well, many somethings, but one in particular blared at me like a klaxon on the first day of school every year for my entire academic life: my name.

At first, I loved the attention my weird name would give me. I would watch people struggle with it and giggle, then happily correct them. I thought my name was kind of hard too, back then. Vowels didn’t make a lot of sense when they were squished so close together. I corrected people’s pronunciation and shrugged it off. How people pronounce your name isn’t really that important when your eight and you think quicksand could be a legitimate problem in the future.

Then came middle school, and all the misunderstood angst that period entails. I got tired of correcting people real fast when they said my name wrong and followed it up with a car joke. Once teachers got to the B’s on their rosters and made that face, I was quick to call out my own name saying, “no, not like the car.” In those years and well into high school, my name began to feel like a burden, and I was extremely unforgiving to those that added to the weight on my shoulders. You grow a thick skin growing up being teased for your name, but it never seemed thick enough.

I had fake names at Starbucks, spelled out my name instead of saying it all when necessary, and told several people upfront to give me a nickname or call me by my surname. I started to bury my name, a defining piece of my identity for over a decade, because people couldn’t pronounce it. I didn’t know which was worse: that no one could say it right (audio, audience, auditorium!), or that I cared so much that they didn’t.

It was my junior year when a close friend made me a shirt with my mantra—no, not like the car—emblazoned upon the front, with the only difference being that the word car was replaced with, well, an actual car. Soon after this, I felt confident enough to reclaim the weirdness of my name. I made usernames that referenced the interlocking rings of the Audi car company’s symbol and started pointing at A4’s on the highway and saying “look, it’s me!”

I should probably mention that this wasn’t a process I did consciously. My self-esteem has had its ups and downs, and my opinion of my given name has fluctuated accordingly. I’ve come to realize that the key to my self-worth has been owning my flaws instead of trying to fix them. I was given one lifetime, one body, and one name, and I’m going to make the very best of them.

I took the terrible pick-up lines in stride (although the Ignition jokes are still particularly horrifying), and laughed off the assertions that I was heiress to the automobile industry. I’ve almost completely suppressed my desire to change my name, though I still like to think I would have made a great Katie.

I still make faces at Coke bottles with the Ashley, Madison, and Samantha’s of the world, and sneer at the souvenir keychains that will never, ever bear my name. But that’s okay.

‘Cause I’ve got a whole darn car company to do it for me.

Leave your memorable experiences with your “weird” name in the comment section below!

Photo credit: 

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• growing up
• names