KH COMMENTARY: Who's Name Is It Anyway?

Meeting new people is always a verbal struggle for me. Not because I’m shy or socially inept or suffer from some kind of conversational phobia which causes me to turn bipolar. It’s because when it comes to introducing my self, the conversation always goes somewhat like this:

“So, what’s your name?”
“It’s Kristen.”
“Christeen?”
“No, Kristen.”
“Oh, I see. Kristy.”
“No, Kristen."
“Kirsten?
“No, KRISTEN!”
“Right. Sorry there, Courtney”

I’ve suffered through this same conversation so many times, I’ve come to hate the sound of my own name. Occasionally, I’ll throw a spanner in the works and say my name is Kate so I can save myself from banging my head against the wall when the inevitable dyslexic banter begins.

This whole issue could have been avoided had the responsibility of my naming been given to myself rather than my parents. But did I get a say? Did I even get a vote? No, my parents went right ahead and christened me Kristen, resigning me to a life spent constantly correcting people (a trait which, believe me, strangers do not find endearing).

It really doesn’t seem fair that the one thing we’re stuck with for the rest of our breathing lives is beyond our control and opinion. We’ve got no rights when it comes to the name we will be known as for the next 90 years. We’re completely at the disposal of the two people who bore us. We can only gurgle in hope that they’ll have more sense than Gwenyth Paltrow and Nicole Kidman put together. Imagine Apple and Sunday Roast when they’re old enough to wonder what in the nine circles of hell their parents were smoking, when they decided to name their offspring after a fruit and a weekend dinner dish. Luckily, celebrity spawn such as these have a large enough inheritance to fund the years of therapy they’ll need to survive eternal tabloid torture.

Indeed, there is nothing quite as dangerous as a celebrity in possession of two brain cells to rub together. Naming your child Fifi Trixibelle is proof in the baby pudding that while adults may be older, they are certainly no wiser than their newly born infant when it comes to generating a name that sticks. When you’re name is Moxie CrimeFighter, one can only wonder where some of these lightning bolts of inspiration stem from.

If this is the case, perhaps my parents were concerned that by handing over the naming rights, they would end up with a daughter known as Barbie or Big Ted or Gemima Puddleduck. I’d like to think they’d have greater faith in me than that, but apparently they thought Kristen was a safer bet than anything I could have come up with at the observant age of four.

However, what my parents failed to realise upon whacking my whacky name on a birth certificate is that what appears to be a simple, two-syllable name has about a trillion different variations thanks to its phonetic sounds – Kristian, Kristy, Kristeen, Kristina, Kirsten, Kirsty and Kirsteen. Trying to get my name out as clearly as possible generally involves firing so much spit at the other person, they require a bathing suit. Add a few alcoholic beverages and some dance music to that equation and they may as well drown in my saliva.

However, I can remain grateful to my parents for one thing. Being born a child to the Baby Boomers saved me from the type of over-indulgent spelling burdened upon The Millennial babies. Krystynn, not only looks like the result of a chemical imbalance, but just has way too many Ys for my liking.

Ciao for now. xo

(Image Credit: Audrey Hepburn Complex)