“Were your parents drunk when they named you?”
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If you don’t understand what the quote above is asking, or if you’re in disbelief as to how that could ever be a legitimate question, let me restate it:
Your name is too hard and weird. No one can pronounce it correctly. It’s an inconvenience for me to say, and I’m going to make a joke out of it. Your parents must have been really drunk to have smashed three consonants together and produce something so weird.
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I’ve told this story before, but there’s a moral at the end of this rendition.
I was your typical awkward sixth grader, who wore wire-rimmed glasses from the third grade, still had plenty of baby fat stored in all locations, and had the slightest trace of a unibrow etched on my face.
I remember one day, when I was working on an art project, and someone came up to me with a grin on his face. He looked around the room to ensure that others were listening, and spat out the words I will repeat once more:
“Hey Smeerthee! Were your parents drunk when they named you?”
The whole class erupted in laughter. I remember feeling downright uncomfortable, and therefore laughed a little as well. The true meaning behind what he said only hit me in the years that followed.
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On one occasion, a barista asked me for my name. Right after spelling out the seven letters, I was met with a look of confusion and pity. This led me to create a “Starbucks identity” – I started to go by Sarah in any given restaurant. It was a name that started with an S. It was pretty. It was easy. It would do.
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“Mum, what does my name mean?”
I remember blatantly telling my mother that I hated the way my name sounded, the way it was spelled – just everything about it. She sat me down and explained its definitions.
Memory.
The memory of my artistic grandmother who was just one month short of being able to meet me for the first time. I’ve heard that she exuded sheer brilliance like no other, something that I’ll never be able to see. I wear her ring on my finger each day as a reminder of my family, my roots.
Fond Memories.
My dad kissing me on the cheek each morning before leaving to work. My sister laying down next to me in my room and talking to me about life and love. Seeing my mother laugh until tears pool in her eyes.
Learning from memory.
A definition derived from one of the holy scriptures in my culture – our heritage.
My name embodies a world of ancestry, and knowledge, and culture, and family.
My name is powerful. It is me.
If you, one day, come across a difficult name, I strongly encourage you to take a moment to stop and marvel at the power behind each letter.
I invite you to try your best to pronounce it. Ask for clarification if you don’t get it right the first time. In other words, show utmost respect for another person’s entirety.
Names are powerful, and we take that for granted.
I don’t go by Sarah anymore. I take up an extra minute of the barista’s day, repeating my name in its full glory.
And to answer the original question – No.
No, my parents were not drunk when they named me.
They were aware and mindful, and fed me an identity which I am proud to have.
I am blessed to be me.
