There is a complexity to my identity, one that has brought me all kinds of struggles over the years and one that I’ve had to live with forever and will live with until the day I die. It’s a strange concept, one that most people don’t understand unless you come from the depths of the south like I do. It’s one that people laugh at, that people cannot wrap their minds around, and in some cases, a dumb flaw in some people’s eyes.
I have a double name. Yes, I have two first names, and I go by both of them, and yes, I do want you to call me both of them. No, I don’t want to go by a simple “Anne,” and no, there aren’t any exceptions to that.
Growing up in Birmingham, pretty much all of my best friends had double names. It was a common thing, an easy thing for people to grasp. Our parents all named us with two first names, with the second name being our middle name. It was just something that was unspoken, an easy thing to understand.
Then I moved 45 minutes down the road. Just 45 minutes away and now I am immersed in this community of people from all over the country and all over the world. There are people from my hometown, there are people from across America, people who have studied all over the place and ended up in good ole Alabama, people who came down from the north for the football — needless to say, there are all kinds of people around here.
When I got to college, I really just didn’t realize how much difficulty my double name could cause all these people. Whenever I introduced myself to anyone, they would have an utter look of confusion on their face, then lean closer in so I could repeat this strange, exotic name back to them. Then they would immediately forget my name because one name is hard enough to remember, right?
Going to Starbucks (or any other place where they ask for your name) is hard because in the hustle and bustle of the confines of that tiny shop, why would workers want to waste their precious time writing out my entire 12-letter name? No matter how busy they are, they simply put half of my name down and move along, or they ask me the dreaded question, “Why do you have two names?”
I swear that’s been the most asked question of my entire life.
At the beginning of this semester, I walked into an upper-level communications class filled with mostly seniors; safe to say, I was terrified being the youngest one in there who had only taken basic classes for my major. The teacher was an interesting guy, with very different teaching principles than any professor I’ve ever taken from. It was a small-ish class, so he was quick to learn all of our names, but of course, my name was just so hard for him to grasp. He decided he was not appreciative of my complex name, so he took time during class to call me out and ask why the hell I had two names. And the guy is from Texas! There’s gotta be double named Texans out there!! Anyways, every class when he calls me out, he simply states, “That just never feels right.” But why?!
You see, here’s the thing: even after all of this pain and suffering that this name has caused me, I love it. It’s unique. It’s special. It’s me. I’m not just a bland “Anne”; I’m “Anne” plus more spunk. And if you can’t learn both parts of my name, then you must just not be important enough to know me (Cocky, right? Well, I have that privilege!)!
Give your kids a double name, because they will have a painful life. But it’s a good type of pain because you’ve just got two more times the cool of everybody else.
