In my latest attempt to become a more responsible adult human, I decided to reorganize my life (aka my room at home), which started with conquering the primary manifestation of my hoarding tendencies: my desk. I began to clear out its contents, finding, among other things, a tape of a horror movie I made with my friends when I was eight, Post-it notes in the shape of llamas, and old notebooks dating back to 2000. Instantly curious about my five-year-old self's ramblings, I flipped through a notebook to find my name scribbled on one of the pages: "Danya Ashley Kachkou, born Aug. 24," it read. I burst out laughing; I have no middle name and if I did, it would definitely not be Ashley, as much as young Danya wished it were.
My parents, both immigrants to the U.S. (my mother from Colombia, my father from Syria), have always said they chose my name because it was easy to say in any language. Spoiler: This doesn’t include English. As a child who strove to exist without being noticed, my “weird” name tormented me, marking me somehow different from the "Josh"s and "Sarah"s of the world.
I would cry to my parents about my name, lamenting that my friends, with names like Nicole and Julia, were better off than I was and urged them to reconsider the name they had given me five years prior. I was usually met with threats of assigning me an even more difficult name (Guadalupe became a go-to threat).
If you have a relatively common name, it’s hard to explain the anxiety attached to having a name people have to ask you twice about. My childhood was spent repeating my name over and over to soccer teammates who could just never remember it correctly, waiting for substitute teachers to preface their attempted pronunciations of my name with a “I know I’m going to butcher this, but” and changing my name to something easier to write on a Starbucks cup.
Fast-forward 15 years and introductions are still anxiety-inducing. Even now I always anticipate “Oh, that’s an interesting name” when I first meet someone, and I still find it uncomfortable to correct professors when they forget how to say my name halfway through the semester. But I don’t hate my name.
I have become more comfortable with what my name signifies. According to different sources, Danya means a Gift of God, judge, or the first margarita on vacation (thanks, Urban Dictionary). In my life, however, it serves as a reminder of where my family is from and their experiences, which are probably different from those of most people I know. It's occasionally a good conversation starter, and something I can bond over with others who have had to settle for finding a more common variation of their name on personalized mugs. It’s also a lot easier to find yourself on Google or Facebook, which is both satisfying and frightening.
Let’s face it. You and I are probably not going to change our weird names because, as much as we resent them, they have become a part of our identities. They tell our stories in ways that other names can’t; they are almost uniquely ours (I haven’t personally met a Danya yet, so let me know if you know one). I guess what I’m saying is, embrace your weird name. It’s probably cooler than you think it is.
Oh, and it’s pronounced Dawn-yuh.
