“So how’s your name most commonly mispronounced?” asked Shawni, my friend’s sister. It was Memorial Day and I had been lucky enough to get invited to someone’s BBQ by my friend Dana.  As more guests jostled the metal gate to enter into the backyard, numerous introductions were made, followed by the customary enunciation of my name.

I looked at her intently for a second and replied “I don’t know, you know people have been mispronouncing my name my whole life.”

”People call her by different names,” Dana interrupted. “Debbie calls her I-dee ,..I call her Ay-day”

“Well how is it supposed to be pronounced?” asked Shawni.

“Like air in Spanish but with a d instead of an r.”

“Aidé. Aidé,” Shawni repeated in a perfect Spanish accent.

“But my family, including my mother, call me Heidi,” some of the other guests began giggling.

“How did that happen?” one of the women asked.

“I think it is the best way that my brothers and sisters found to anglicize my name, and it just stuck. In fact to this day, they enjoy calling me Heidi-Whitey.” And then all the ladies around the table laughed even louder than before.

In all honesty, I rarely notice the way people pronounce my name. Most of the time, I can tell when someone is talking to me, or about me; and for the most part I let people call me what they will or what they can, hoping that they will come closest to the best approximation of what my mother intended.  But even getting down to her intentions is problematic for me.  As the youngest of five children my siblings have important names that seem to carry their own familial and historical weight. The first set of twins (my family consists of two sets and then me), Alma and Saul, are named after people that none us children ever knew but are nonetheless important figures in the Rodriguez chronicles: My sister was named Alma which means soul in Spanish and Ophelia after my father’s mother who died at a very young age in childbirth. Saul was named after Saul Celis who was killed in a wild-west family feud style gunfight when he was 16, in my parent’s hometown; he had been my father’s best friend. The second set of twins, Emma and Bernabe (Bernie) are named after my parents.

But when I asked my mother who I was named after she said, “…I don’t remember if it was a Venezuelan soap opera actress or soap opera character…” Of course, I have no idea who this woman may have been on screen or in real life. And as much as I would like to know what Aide the actress looked like, or whether Aide the T.V. character was the charismatic protagonist of the telenovela, I find some comfort that once free of the obligation to honor their loved ones and themselves, my parents gave me a name that they simply liked and appreciated for the way it sounded. Like aire but with a d.

by Aide Rodriguez
San Francisco, CA

Confucius once said
If the name is not right
Language will carry no might
So my father created my name
By rearranging the sun and moon
Vertically and horizontally
To equip it with all
The forces of yin and yang
Dispersed in the universe

Since I became subject
To a totally different grammar
All people have complained
Or made fun of my name
So harsh and awkward
They conspire to seduce me
To adopt a familiar one
Like Michael in the powerful speech

But to retain the subtle balances
In the wild wild world I wander
To hold my father’s sunbeam
With my mother’s moonlight
I fiercely refuse to change it
Even though I often feel lost
When the sounds I hear
Do not sound like my name at all

by Changming Yuan
Vancouver, Canada

When I was born my parents gave me the name “Elizabeth” and I was called this until I was 8 years old. Then like most other Elizabeths, I became Liz. I think it was friends who started calling me Lizard. I liked it because it was a name no one else had. It was unique to me alone.

I suspect it was the fear of entering JR High that normalized my name back to Liz. And Liz was my name until, at age 25, I asked to be called Elizabeth from here on after. I sent an e-mail to my friends and family and even my landlord. This was met by acceptance and confusion.

Why Elizabeth? Why now? E-liz-a-beth - it consisted of four syllables. It came off the tongue with more effort, thus more distinction. It was nuanced and complicated. It was necessary to make a loophole through. I wanted to control my identity; to tell others who I was. It’s hard though, to change how others see you. So, I decided that if you had known me for at least five years, you could call me Liz.

When I turned 29, I moved to California. Here was my chance! When I said Elizabeth, it was never questioned. But within a year, it was taking a toll on me. Whereas before the multi-syllables were mysterious, now they were burdensome. They seemed ornate and unnecessary. I felt that by going by this name I was somehow betraying my true self.

So once more I started using Liz, without an official announcement. My grad school classmates made the transition easily but my professors were a little slower. Upon hearing “Liz” they would ask if this is what I went by - as if they had been mistakenly calling me Elizabeth for the past 7 months.  Then, yet again, I had to answer the seemingly endless questions. Do you go by Elizabeth or Liz? Which one do you like better?

Just call me Liz, I say. It’ll make it easier for everyone.

by Liz Bacon Jones
Oakland, CA

I used to say I didn’t write because of my name: Michelle Hoppe.

Michelle Hoppe is a Los Angeles writer/actress. I’m an unemployed Florida English teacher/writer. She played the guidance counselor in a reversed Shakespearean comedy Ten Things I Hate about You. I played nun #45 in a school production of The Sound of Music. She is a pornographic novelist. I am a Mormon. Her website has a single red rose draped seductively across the opening of a blurry-paged novella and fine white print on a black screen irrelevantly warning away minors. I masked pride and fear, for pride is fear, behind the question, How could I ever make it away from that name?

But I now proclaim–irrelevantly, as I assume someone is reading this–that I do write, and there came a time when I had to submit my first cover letter. I’ve heard cover letters are legendarily archived when ridiculous. Phrases like, “My mother really loved this story, and she thinks you will too,” or “My writing group expressed extreme like, even love, for my work. I’ve sent you this same story three times. Please take me seriously” are kept for editor posterity. Cover letters are the art of selling oneself, the paper equivalent of an interview, so I don’t know what I was thinking when I submitted,

Dear Editor,

Bio: Someday I’d like to be published as M. R. H., as opposed to Michelle Renee Hoppe or Michelle Hoppe. M. R. Hoppe sounds a little too sci-fi or fantasy for what I’ve written. Michelle Hoppe is the name of the actress who played a dirty guidance counselor in Ten Things I Hate about You. She’s a dirty novelist in real life who publishes under my name (name strumpet!). Maybe someday I’ll get married and all my problems will be fixed. I’m asking these questions now because I have yet to be published. You could change that, wink wink. Now I feel like a strumpet.

Thank you for your consideration,

M.R.H.

The next day: panic. Aside from felonies and misdemeanors, there was absolutely nothing to be done. Two months later I received a reply.

Dear Michelle,

Thanks for submitting your work to . . .  Unfortunately, I can’t use it for our next issue.  I would, however, love to see more work in the future.

Thanks again,

Poetry Editor

P.S.  I was honestly much more drawn to the style and tone of your bio. Do you have any poems that are looser, like that?

By M.R.H.
Satellite Beach, FL