An Open Letter to My Strange Name

By Treanna Lawrence on September 23, 2016

Hey there Treanna (Trai-ah-nah),

It’s amazing how even as a young child, I knew you were a strange name. You earned me odd looks and confused glances as people tried, and failed, to pronounce your strange conglomeration of vowels and consonants.

And it’s not really your fault, but I absolutely despised you.

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At the age of six, I remember asking my parents how they came up with you. My father, proud to have named all four of his children, said, “I met your mom’s colleague at one of her work functions and she had your name. I thought it was the prettiest name I’d ever heard.”

No one had ever said that before. I smiled, loving the fact that someone, even if it was just Dad, thought you were pretty. That was, until Ma said, “I’ve never worked with anyone named Treanna. Hmm … are you thinking of my coworker Tatiana?”

The brief joy I was experiencing was completely overshadowed by this revelation. Tatiana? You should have been Tatiana?

While I had always disliked you, I absolutely loathed you then. I felt as if I had been destined to have a nice, normal, name and by a stroke of incredibly shitty luck, I had ended up with you.

I used to have arguments with my sister, Keila over you. Like yourself, her name is uncommon, but much more palatable. She said you were prettier. I begged to differ. When people said her name was pretty, they meant it. I desperately wished I could barter you off to her and never take you back.

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Because of you, meeting new people always brought a sort of nervous dread. Self introductions in class were torture, and giving you out to baristas at Starbucks was my personal hell.

When others called you “unique,” I knew at best it was a euphemism for “strange.” When others said you were “exotic,” I prayed to God they didn’t mean “ghetto.” People would ask what you meant, and I felt embarrassed, because I had no answer for them. You had no history or depth. You were made up.

The only time I really liked you was when my family and closest friends shortened you to “Tre.” It was an endearment that carried a sort of warmth. But as I got older, I noticed how much easier that version of you was. “Tre” wasn’t intimidating or weird. “Tre” was recognizable. “Tre” was friendly. And once the initial shock wore off that “Tre” was being used for a girl’s name, many thought you were quirky, and even cute. So I offered “Tre” up like candy. It was an incredibly intimate use of you and having strangers call you that made me feel uncomfortable, but I shook off the feeling in hopes that she would outshine you. In hopes that they would forget that you were really “Treanna.”

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Eventually I grew to have a sort of lazy acceptance of you. You weren’t the best name, but familiarity does breed fondness. People seemed to find a genuine joy in butchering you, and in time, I grew defensive. You’d been referred to by any and every name beginning with “T”. Don’t get me wrong, I was the first to admit that you were unusual, but you weren’t difficult. Rihanna. Alana. Leanna. Brianna. Diana. How was it possible that others could get all of these names right, but somehow you were an unsolvable mystery?

I gave people a grace period of about a week to get you right, but after that, I was ruthless. I would roll my eyes at others when they mispronounced you. I’d condescendingly sound you out to them as if I were talking to toddlers. On my meanest days, I would pretend not to notice those who would try to get my attention without saying you out loud, knowing full well they had no idea how to handle you. And though I told myself I had accepted you, I knew I really hadn’t.

I didn’t want to resent you, but you were worse than a shadow; at least shadows disappeared with the sun. You were present for every roll call during my first days of school.  You attended every job interview. You stuck with me during every first impression. And I was so, so scared that you were making a bad one.

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I won’t lie and say there was a eureka-moment when I learned to like you. There was no shocking realization or heart-felt moment. But with time I realized that you’ve brought self-reflection and a consideration for others into my life that I don’t think I would have had, if you had been “Tatianna.”

I refuse to ask favors from others if I don’t know their name. It’s a basic courtesy that I pay to all those around me. Because a name is one of the most basic, intrinsic parts of someone’s identity and to not make the effort to get that right is to deny them of the lowest form of respect.

You are a strange name. I will never be a person who can find you on a necklace at Claire’s or on a Coke can, and that’s okay. You are distinctive, and beautiful in your own right, and you have made me a better person.

I used to blame you for how others will see me, but you don’t make me who I am. It’s me defines you. I am your ambassador. Most people haven’t encountered you before, so when they meet me, I am the one who will represent you. My actions will dictate how others see you. My behavior will decide if others will smile, feel intrigued, or grimace at the sound of you.

And while that thought used to scare me, I am now honored to have the privilege.

Sincerely,

Treanna

 

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