At my college, everyone made up names for themselves. Maybe that’s a common thing for college-aged kids: Anna or Mary or Michael or John is too ordinary for an eighteen year-old dreamer. Something like that.
I’ve always sort of hated my name, to be honest. I went by a shortened version of my name for as long as I can remember. That is to say, I didn’t choose the nickname for myself. And I’ve never liked it. (Hint, it’s shared with the likes of this crazy bitch.) My actual name is just okay, but I’ve never figured out how to pronounce it properly—really, I don’t know how to pronounce my own name.
I decided when I moved to Atlanta that I would go by my birth name, but an old friend introduced me to the people who would become my best friends with my hated nickname, so I haven’t managed to escape it. I use my full name at school and work, but somehow I never say it right. I’ve always had this problem—I swallow my words and people are somehow always sure that my name is Samara, or Camara. It makes me feel like the weirdest freak in the whole wide world.
photo by elisabeth (weepy hollow)