Sometimes I like my name, Kirstin. It’s unique, and it starts with a “k,” which is a particularly fun letter.
Sometimes I hate my name, though. It’s rather hard to pronounce. I’ve had a lot of introductions that run like this:
“I’m Kirstin.”
“Kristin?”
“KIRstin.”
“Kerstin?”
“KIRstin.”
“Oh, right, I see.”
And we both know that the person doesn’t see, actually. So that person just never refers to me by name for the duration of our acquaintance. It’s a bit awkward.
My mother says to tell people that you pronounce it like your ear. She suggests I say, “It’s KEARstin,” while pulling on my ear. I don’t really like comparing my name to an appendage on first meeting someone, though, and most people shift their gazes awkwardly when I try this method. My college friend told me to say it rhymes with beer. That also isn’t so attractive, and it’s a particularly difficult comparison to make during, say, an interview.
Whenever I meet another “Kirstin,” it is an exciting moment for both of us. We commiserate about the difficult pronunciation. Often, other Kirstins have said their mothers advised them to say it’s like their ears too! None of us liked that.
My name isn’t just hard to say, though. It’s also hard to spell. Most Kirstins are Kirstens. I know. I’ve done a study and catalogued all of the Kirstens I’ve ever met, and both of them spelled it with an “e.” My parents used to tell me that “Kirstin” is the Norwegian spelling, since my father is Norwegian. “Kirsten,” they claimed, is Swedish. I bought this for a number of years and even felt this cultural pride in the unique spelling. Then I met a Norwegian immigrant. He said he’d never heard of such a thing—none of the Kirstens in Norway are Kirstins. I felt quite duped after that and concluded it pointed to a massive conspiracy on the part of my parents.
Because it’s so often misspelled, one of my favorite things is to see my name written in someone else’s handwriting and spelled correctly. This almost never happens. It happens so seldom, in fact, that I dread people making me name tags at meet and greets. I always get a Guess the Spelling Person making my name tag. The dialogue normally runs like this:
“My name is Kirstin, K-I-R.” I begin, pausing politely for the person to write these first three letters before continuing to “S-T.”
But these Guess the Spelling People are already writing the S-T, so I see the danger and blurt out “I-N! I-N!,” but it’s too late. The “en” has already been penned. You’d think I’d get a new name tag then, but no! Generally the culprit draws an “i” on top of the “e” to fix it. And that’s the name tag I wear. The whole time I am Kirstien. It’s terrible. As if there isn’t enough trouble with people pronouncing my name, they can’t even read properly what the name tag says. Mine is a tragic story.
I want to ask for a new name tag, but then I feel silly. It isn’t a big deal, really. I barely think of it afterwards, obviously.
When I was in India and living with Jain nuns, one of the nuns told me she had recently had a wonderful idea. She would call me “Kris,” since Kirstin is so hard to say. She told all of the nuns to call me Kris from then on. Again, it was fine. I didn’t mind. It’s just that some of their names were Shilapi, Shoboomji, Ruchikaji, and Kalyani, and I pronounced all of them in their entirety because, you know, people like to be called by their correct names. But, still, it’s no big deal.
I know I should speak up more and correct people. In fact, when I was in high school, someone once signed my year book saying that I should insist that substitute teachers pronounce my name correctly. Do you know what the signer’s name was? Ellen Smith. People with simple names do not understand the tragedy of having a hard name! Why correct a substitute? I’ll never see that person again, and we’ll have to go through five rounds of “Kerstin? Kristen?,” and even then we may never arrive at the correct pronunciation. It just isn’t worth it.
My last name is also hard: Odegaard. People are always doubling the “g” instead of the “a” when they spell it, and pronunciation is very difficult for the layperson to master. My middle name is Elizabeth, which isn’t hard, but it’s a lot of name in the end: Kirstin Elizabeth Odegaard. My married name is Kaiser, and when I switch and use that name, new worlds of simplicity open before me. Thanks to the local hospital chain, both spelling and pronunciation are no problem! (Plus, it starts with a “k,” which was the determining factor in deciding to marry my husband, especially since everyone knows that alliterative names make happy people.) Granted, if I had a penny for every time someone asked me if I owned the hospital chains, I’d have roughly 52 cents now, but it’s a small burden for correct spelling and pronunciation.
For this reason, my children will have simple names. My husband and I like the name Colin. It would be fun if it started with a “k,” since such happiness comes from that letter, but I would never do that to my child. It would be borderline abusive. Note that he’ll still have alliteration in the Colin Kaiser, though.
In some countries, I have read that it is illegal for parents to give children unusual names. The courts do not allow it. I fully support this legislation.
I forgive my parents. Their names are Richard and Pamela, so they’re clearly Easy Name People, and I know that Easy Name People just don’t understand. Colin won’t understand either. I’ll do my best to educate him, though, so that he doesn’t produce a child named Voldemort or Hermione. It’s the least I can do for my future grandchild.
Sometimes I hate my name, though. It’s rather hard to pronounce. I’ve had a lot of introductions that run like this:
“I’m Kirstin.”
“Kristin?”
“KIRstin.”
“Kerstin?”
“KIRstin.”
“Oh, right, I see.”
And we both know that the person doesn’t see, actually. So that person just never refers to me by name for the duration of our acquaintance. It’s a bit awkward.
My mother says to tell people that you pronounce it like your ear. She suggests I say, “It’s KEARstin,” while pulling on my ear. I don’t really like comparing my name to an appendage on first meeting someone, though, and most people shift their gazes awkwardly when I try this method. My college friend told me to say it rhymes with beer. That also isn’t so attractive, and it’s a particularly difficult comparison to make during, say, an interview.
Whenever I meet another “Kirstin,” it is an exciting moment for both of us. We commiserate about the difficult pronunciation. Often, other Kirstins have said their mothers advised them to say it’s like their ears too! None of us liked that.
My name isn’t just hard to say, though. It’s also hard to spell. Most Kirstins are Kirstens. I know. I’ve done a study and catalogued all of the Kirstens I’ve ever met, and both of them spelled it with an “e.” My parents used to tell me that “Kirstin” is the Norwegian spelling, since my father is Norwegian. “Kirsten,” they claimed, is Swedish. I bought this for a number of years and even felt this cultural pride in the unique spelling. Then I met a Norwegian immigrant. He said he’d never heard of such a thing—none of the Kirstens in Norway are Kirstins. I felt quite duped after that and concluded it pointed to a massive conspiracy on the part of my parents.
Because it’s so often misspelled, one of my favorite things is to see my name written in someone else’s handwriting and spelled correctly. This almost never happens. It happens so seldom, in fact, that I dread people making me name tags at meet and greets. I always get a Guess the Spelling Person making my name tag. The dialogue normally runs like this:
“My name is Kirstin, K-I-R.” I begin, pausing politely for the person to write these first three letters before continuing to “S-T.”
But these Guess the Spelling People are already writing the S-T, so I see the danger and blurt out “I-N! I-N!,” but it’s too late. The “en” has already been penned. You’d think I’d get a new name tag then, but no! Generally the culprit draws an “i” on top of the “e” to fix it. And that’s the name tag I wear. The whole time I am Kirstien. It’s terrible. As if there isn’t enough trouble with people pronouncing my name, they can’t even read properly what the name tag says. Mine is a tragic story.
I want to ask for a new name tag, but then I feel silly. It isn’t a big deal, really. I barely think of it afterwards, obviously.
When I was in India and living with Jain nuns, one of the nuns told me she had recently had a wonderful idea. She would call me “Kris,” since Kirstin is so hard to say. She told all of the nuns to call me Kris from then on. Again, it was fine. I didn’t mind. It’s just that some of their names were Shilapi, Shoboomji, Ruchikaji, and Kalyani, and I pronounced all of them in their entirety because, you know, people like to be called by their correct names. But, still, it’s no big deal.
I know I should speak up more and correct people. In fact, when I was in high school, someone once signed my year book saying that I should insist that substitute teachers pronounce my name correctly. Do you know what the signer’s name was? Ellen Smith. People with simple names do not understand the tragedy of having a hard name! Why correct a substitute? I’ll never see that person again, and we’ll have to go through five rounds of “Kerstin? Kristen?,” and even then we may never arrive at the correct pronunciation. It just isn’t worth it.
My last name is also hard: Odegaard. People are always doubling the “g” instead of the “a” when they spell it, and pronunciation is very difficult for the layperson to master. My middle name is Elizabeth, which isn’t hard, but it’s a lot of name in the end: Kirstin Elizabeth Odegaard. My married name is Kaiser, and when I switch and use that name, new worlds of simplicity open before me. Thanks to the local hospital chain, both spelling and pronunciation are no problem! (Plus, it starts with a “k,” which was the determining factor in deciding to marry my husband, especially since everyone knows that alliterative names make happy people.) Granted, if I had a penny for every time someone asked me if I owned the hospital chains, I’d have roughly 52 cents now, but it’s a small burden for correct spelling and pronunciation.
For this reason, my children will have simple names. My husband and I like the name Colin. It would be fun if it started with a “k,” since such happiness comes from that letter, but I would never do that to my child. It would be borderline abusive. Note that he’ll still have alliteration in the Colin Kaiser, though.
In some countries, I have read that it is illegal for parents to give children unusual names. The courts do not allow it. I fully support this legislation.
I forgive my parents. Their names are Richard and Pamela, so they’re clearly Easy Name People, and I know that Easy Name People just don’t understand. Colin won’t understand either. I’ll do my best to educate him, though, so that he doesn’t produce a child named Voldemort or Hermione. It’s the least I can do for my future grandchild.
