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When you grow up with a name that is hard to pronounce.

My name is Carron. 

“Is it Karen or Carmen?”
“Did you say Lauren?”
“Corinne?”
“Oh, that’s different.”

Yeah. I know. I don’t get it either. But let me just start by saying that I hate my name as much as you do. 

It makes sense to me when people pronounce it incorrectly when read aloud, but when I introduce myself to new people I am almost always met with a disgusted, confused look. 

People have even asked me “Why?” 

I don’t know why. Just say it right. Or if you still don’t get it, ask… nicely. I get it that it may be the first time you’ve heard my name, so maybe you don’t get it on the first try, and that’s okay, but I deserve the respect of at least being asked. Then, once you get it, get it right. People that I’ve known and spoken to for years, still call me Karen. I don’t understand. 

“No, my name is not Karen.”

I’ve spent the better part of my life wanting to change it. Trying on new names like clothes and tossing them out with each passing season. Noelle? I’m a winter baby, so it works, right? Maybe not, how about just Elle? It’s strong and feminine, I want to be strong and feminine, it’s perfect. No. It’s not really me, is it? Maybe Sophia? Yeah, I like that; it comes from the Greek Sophia, which according to the Online Etymology Dictionary, means “skill, knowledge of, acquaintance with; sound judgment, practical wisdom; cunning, shrewdness; philosophy” Yes! That’s it! I’m studious and practical. No… No, it’s too far off. I guess I could just go by my middle name. Brynn is fun and different. But, it’s probably too different. No. Just plain old Carron. One letter off from “carrot” People’s mispronunciations start to make sense.

In my 9th grade English class we read Julius Caesar. The word leapt, angry and ugly, from the page, “carrion” It pierced like a dagger through my eyes first, then my heart. “Dead and putrefying flesh” according to Merriam-Webster. I felt that I shared a sense of hurt and betrayal with Caesar. Et tu, universe?

My own father can’t get it right. For years and years, he has called me by my sister’s name.

I am not Christine. 

My name is Carron.

Like this post? View similar content here: Dear You, This Is Me

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by carronbrynn

I write to process things I don't know how to talk about.

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