I Miss My Name

Posted by on April 11, 2016 in Stories | Leave a comment

I miss my name. It was lost on my journey to New York. Maybe it happened as I stepped onto the plane in Estonia, or during the lengthy layover in Heathrow. I am not sure. By the time I had reached the immigration booth in JFK, it was hopelessly gone.

Getting my name back seemed inevitable. I was naive. K-A-I-R-E, I slowly and patiently pronounced, full of enthusiasm and hope. In return I was met with a blank stare or an absent nod, the way you act when you realize you have started a conversation with a foreigner and have no idea what they are saying.

I now have a routine, an activity which consumes a great deal of my daily life. It starts off promising. First, I demonstrate the sharpness of the K, which I follow with the openness of the A, and the short and snappy I. Usually, this performance receives an enthusiastic nod. Next, I stretch my mouth wide, expose my teeth and vigorously vibrate the tip of my tongue against the roof of my mouth for a prolonged rolling R. This only encourages people to copy me and results in an excessive display of open mouth and spittle. Finally, it all goes to hell with the last letter E. “But you are not saying E,” the argument begins. “It is an A you are pronouncing at the end,” the person insists. “Nope, that is not an E,” they confirm after I repeat it. Sometimes, if there is more then one person they egg each other on. “Yes, yes, I too feel that you are saying A at the end.”

On most days, people just think I ignore them. The truth is, I have no idea that I am being addressed. “Kiera” they say. I keep walking. “Koeeeera” they shout. I look around for Koera. Some people just call me K. They’re not being lazy. I am. It’s simply frustrating being called Carrie or Corrie. Eventually somebody pronounces it Qaeda, stops, raises an eyebrow and snickers, “Al-Qaeda?”

Just call me K.

It is not just my name about which people are experts. “Where are you from?” This, I was asked by a woman who I had randomly met playing pool at a New York City bar. I told her I was from Estonia. “Oh great!” She announced loudly. “Right across the bridge!”

A bridge to Estonia? Why do I spend all this money on plane tickets? My heart leapt at the possibility. A convertible, my hair whipping in the Atlantic wind, and the radio pumping as I race a Princess cruise ship, passengers waving and encouraging me onward.

“But you have an accent!” The woman insisted, swinging a Sam Adams pint at me. Squinting, she seemed convinced I was hiding something and she was gonna get to the bottom of it. She took a heavy gulp from her beer as she balanced herself on the pool stick. Leaning closer, she opened her mouth big and wide, enunciating slowly and clearly, “W-h-e-r-e – w-e-r-e – y-o-u -b-o-o-o-r-n, Carrie?” My driving fantasy was crushed. She heard ‘Astoria,’ as in Astoria, Queens.

I miss my name.