N-A-M-E.

My name. Prithika Ravi.

Growing up surrounded by Sarahs, Taylors, Graces, and Ryans, I remember being around 7 or 8 and wondering why at the beginning of the year teachers would pause and look confused when it came time to say my name. I remember feeling like there was some sort of distinction between  me and Sarah or Jack-- like there was a spotlight on me. They apologized for not knowing how to pronounce it and I showed them. Pri-thi-ka, just like it’s spelled, I said patiently. They told me it was a pretty name. I tried to believe them, wondering if having a “pretty” name was worth the unwanted attention.

By 5th grade, it was routine. Every time the school year started, if they stopped and looked confused during attendance, it was probably my fault. By that time, I had gotten everything from Pritheeka to Patricia. But this wasn’t their fault, they were just not accustomed to having a student with a name like mine. I was unique. That’s what I told myself. When it came to roll call, I remember being intrigued to see if they could get it right this time. It became a game. One of my biggest insecurities became something trivial, something I could easily brush off. Maybe I wasn’t embracing it, but it was better than distancing myself from it. 

But school and the outside world were different. I realized how important names were, from claustrophobic American Eagle dressing rooms to a quiet hospital, your name is part of how other people recognized you. It was a part of your identity, not just something used to get someone’s attention. I found myself wondering what name I would have if I were to have a more Americanized name. I started to ask my friends: “Hey guys, do you think I look more like a Jessica or a Zoe?” 

But I realized my parents don’t even call me Prithika. They call me Prithi. Yet, I always vehemently nod my head when people ask me if I have a nickname. So am I Prithi or Prithika? I tried introducing myself as Prithi to a teacher once but I physically could not bring myself to say it. It felt like betrayal-- to even think about extending the privilege of using this name that only family called me to other people. So my friends started calling me Prith. At first, I cringed when I heard the name or wouldn’t even realize they called me because it sounded so foreign. I felt loyal to my full name but simultaneously wanted to distance myself from it. 

I remember the first time I went by a different name. It wasn’t anything important, it was just for the Gap lady to write my name on the dressing room. I felt guilty to be ashamed of my name, but at least I wasn’t completely shying away from my identity. I told her my name, Priya, I said. She began to write it as I analyzed her face for any sign of disbelief. It felt weird, going by a different name. But at least she didn’t tell me it was a “pretty” name just because she couldn’t spell it or pronounce it. And that was all that mattered. Right?

Maybe it isn’t completely right that I felt embarrassed by my name, this name that feels just right even though I can’t bring myself to confront it. But I’m getting there. I embrace the nicknames people give me, allow myself to expand my boundaries and go by my real name. Slowly but gradually, over these 16 years, I am becoming more accustomed to this name that was decided for me and I’m allowing myself to take my time. And it’s worth it.