The naming of Editor B‘s daughter got me thinking about the somewhat noteworthy history surrounding my own moniker. As if Maitri isn’t hard enough on the western tongue (and I hate it when some cluelessly insist on calling me May-tree after I’ve just introduced myself as My-tree), the parentals also handed me a mouthful of a last name. It’s not Czselezxnikovzsrky and doesn’t involve diphthongs and digraphs, but somehow eludes most American tongues. The name on each side of the hyphen is simple enough to pronounce and indeed loans itself to one new last name when put together. Also, it’s alright that I don’t have the same last name as my parents. Really.
So, I wonder, “How many times in her lifetime will P have to say this?”
Yes, I know that my last name is not the same as my mother’s is not the same as my father’s is not the same as my brother’s is not the same as any other family member’s. And, no, for the last time, the first part of it is not my middle name, but thanks for informing me. What part of a dual-last-name juxtaposition, a concept invented by the west, do you not understand?
There are days when I’d gladly be Jane Smith or Rita Patel, but what fun would that be? My parents and heritage are hella cool and I did a lot of work 11 years ago to get that hyphen legally accepted. That’s right, use the brain, sound out the letters and lose those dumb Hooked On Phonics lessons to say my name. Say it! This is also why I’ve held out on changing my last name to that of D’s, although we’ve decided that our kids will have his last name. My cousins often coax us to change both of our last names to V-R-E after which they will refer to us as the Hyphen-Hyphens. Very funny.
Pregnancy hormones wafting through the New Orleans blogosphere. Don’t start knitting me any eSocks, though. It’s not happening any time soon.