My parents named me Yekaterina–or Katya for short. If that sounds like a mouthful, trust me, it is, especially to English speakers. It’s a mosaic of consonants and vowels that doesn’t quite sit fluidly on one’s tongue, a porcupine jumble of letters producing discordant sounds.
At least, that’s what I believed when I was 14. I’d decided in my 8th grade year, that I was going to take my given name, Katya, and change it. Change it to something American-sounding, easy, simple, common.
I dropped the “a’ off the end, and became Katy. Very close to Katie, yes, and vocally the closest to “fitting in” that I’ve ever been. Or so I’d thought back then.
As a kid, I grew up having my identity shaped and formed by the tongues of those who’d gotten me wrong. They’d say “kaht-yah” or “kah-ree-ya” or “kah-chah”–all of which sounded nothing like the Americanized, silky “KAH-tee-ah” that I truly was. In fact, I remember being viscerally uncomfortable saying my name to strangers or to a room full of classmates, because, it, too, sat oddly on my tongue, an imperfect jigsaw of name and identity. To escape all the confusion, and repetition, and the constant butchering thereof, I changed my name.
On my school worksheets, I started writing “Katy” in 8th grade. When I got to high school, I retained that identity at an especially turbulent time in adolescence when all teenagers really want is to fit in. So I thought I did.
Katy. Very simple, easy to pronounce, easy to remember–except that it wasn’t me. I wasn’t just another “Katie” (one of the most common American names), since my whole teenage rebellion mantra was to stand out. It’s why I listened to angsty, political, against-the-grain music, dyed my hair, wore spikes on my belt, and tried to carve my own individual identify among the crowd.
So it wasn’t until the end of my first year of high school that my best friend’s boyfriend confronted me, point-blank, “Katya, why would you ever want to fit in?”
Note that he was an Indian dude dating a Bolivian girl, and his name was Chinmay and hers was Lucia. I had the gift of being surrounded by those whose names didn’t fit in either.
And he was right. Why would I want to be just like every other Katie, be among the four other Katies in my English class alone, be one whose name didn’t leave you wondering how to best position your tongue against the roof of your mouth?
And so, sophomore year, I changed my name. I changed it back. Now, I was back to being my original self. Katya. Weird pronunciation and all.
. . .
I myself didn’t realize how salient this teenage identity crisis was until the issue of names came up again, today.
Every Tuesday I lead my local Toastmasters club, and as the youngest president against a backdrop of mostly older members, I have the tricky position of navigating operations and relationships of Toastmasters who’ve been part of the club for years. My go-to mode, then, is also known better, in my eyes, as “deference” or “oh, they know better” since they’ve been here longer.
So imagine my surprise when I found myself saying to the club at the end of our meeting, “And one more thing, fellow Toastmasters.”
“I’d like to bring up the topic of names today.”
Earlier in the meeting, the names of two other members and myself were completely butchered by members who knew us. This is not meant as accusatory, for it is hard to remember all the nuances of a unique name, let alone multiple–and I completely understand that! Instead, I was inspired by a comment a long-time Toastmaster made about addressing people by “the name their parents gave them” in an unrelated context.
This stuck out to
So, in addressing the club, I called out the other two members whose names got repeatedly (though not maliciously) misplaced on members’ tongues. I asked those two women to say their name–loud and proud–so all of us could hear the right way. The way their parents intended. The way their identities dictated.
And then, I regained the stage, and shook the potential discomfort of addressing the right way to say my own name–despite introducing myself to these people every day for a year and a half.
I said, “And my name is Katya. KAH-tee-ah.”
. . .
What’s in a name?
It is our vocal, written, and read signal to the world. It is more than just a conglomeration of letters that many other people on this earth may share.
Instead, it is our own unique identify. The nuances of a “Katya” or a “Chinmay” or even a “Katie” are embedded in how their owner chooses to share it with the world. This paves the way for how that individual shows up. If others can’t get it right, if you yourself can’t get it right, then how much of your self is being compromised?
What’s in a name is more than just a mosaic of consonants and vowels, more than just a word you say when introducing yourself for the first or hundredth time.
It is the way you carry yourself, the way you present yourself to the world, the way the world sees you.
So say it.
Say it loud and say it proud. Live your name. Live it because it lives you.