say my name, say my name

If you listen to my father, my name was supposed to be Charlie, just like his. My parents had an agreement — since they named their first child after my mother, their second would be named after my father. I owe my constant identity crises to them. If the subject comes up, my father will waste no time telling you how much better my life would’ve been if I had been named Charlie. I think his motives are mostly selfish, but I have to agree that Charlie suits me better. It adds the right amount of androgyny to my persona. The story goes that my father named me Charlie, but when he left the delivery room my mother crossed out the letter 'h'. The whole thing feels a bit too cinematic to me. I was there, but my brain wasn’t developed enough to confirm. The way my mother tells this story with such glee in her eyes has been fine-tuned over the past twenty-seven years and always ends in me mentioning that my sister Maggie is named after my mother. It always gets big laughs. I may have the wrong name, but at least I have a good story. 

My name is Carlie. It took me years of practicing to be able to pronounce it correctly and I still slip up every now and then. Something about the letters ‘r’ and ‘l’ next to each other refuses to roll itself off my tongue. I try my best to pronounce the ‘rl’ as clearly as possible, but it usually goes awry on the first try. The hard ‘ar’ turns soft in my mouth and I end up with people calling me Corley, as if that's a more common name. Occasionally I get Courtney, which I can only assume is more common than Corley. I try to make up for that weak ‘r’, but occasionally I overcompensate and hit the ‘r’ so hard that the Starbucks barista hands me a cup that says Cartly on it. When the man taking my lunch order over the phone is too annoyed to ask for my name a third time, I end up picking up a salad for Harley. At least I got the hard ‘r’ on that one. Maybe I’m a mumbler. Maybe that’s why people mistake my middle for Murray when I say Marie. Maybe the problem really is me. Where I work as a receptionist, I practice saying my name all day long. I pick up the phone and say "Hi this is Carlie," and in return I get called Corley, Curley, Courtney, or Caily. What’s your name? Carlie. Sorry, what did you say? It’s Carlie. Callie? Carlie, I say, really emphasizing the hard 'r' and almost getting stuck there. Silence. Car *slight pause* lee. Ohh, Carly. Yes. That’s me. Carlie. The girl who can’t say her own name.

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There’s a new trainer at my gym and like a good business professional, he’s trying to learn everyone’s name. In the middle of my usual Thursday night group class, I’m walking across the studio to get to the next station, panting heavily from my lack of cardio fitness, when I cross his path. I’m already past him, with my back to him, when he says, "Carlie, right?" My truly dumbass self turns right on my heel and points at him finger-gun style like I’m a greaser in The Outsiders, too out of breath and taken by surprise to form any real words. Whenever someone I don’t know very well surprises me by using my own name at me, I’m reminded of how much I feel like it belongs to someone else. When people hear Carlie I assume they’re looking over my shoulder at the smiling cheerleader standing behind me. When they hear Carlie, they’re thinking Carly or Carley or Carli. 

Carly is all bubblegum. She’s someone else. She’s the outgoing, happy-go-lucky cheerleader you knew in high school. She’s feminine and charming, always making direct eye contact. She’s never not smiling. Carly walks unflinchingly through life. When she goes to the grocery store she’s not walking down every aisle wondering if people are staring at her or what they think about her. When she orders her coffee she never stutters and waits patiently without the slightest nervous tic. She’s never anxious. She can walk into any room and feel at ease. She believes in traditional gender roles and never corrects anyone about anything, especially if she knows what they mean. Carly is who my mother expected me to become, who my iPhone wants me to be. Instead, the universe turned out a Carlie — an awkward introvert overcome with existential dread at every waking moment. Carlie binge eats while cocooned in blankets in her bed and bruises her knuckles taking out her anxieties at the gym. She avoids eye contact in public so she doesn’t have to talk to anyone and orders her coffee on her phone so she can avoid human contact. Her resting face is often mistaken for her “I’m enraged” face, and she never laughs to be polite. Carlie is sarcastic and anxiety-prone. She’s never at ease. Carlie often wishes she could take her brain out and put it on her nightstand for a while to give herself a break.

My friends endear themselves to me by calling me Car. It’s that lazy form of a nickname where you just stop talking after the first syllable in someone’s name. It’s perfect. When my friends call me Car, I respond immediately without tension. I feel at home. It’s more familiar to me than my full name to the point where if you yelled “Car!” at me in the middle of the street I’d turn towards your voice and imminently get hit by a car speeding in my direction. Car is a no-frills alternative to the bubbly Carlie. It’s an object and I enjoy objectifying myself. At least this way I don’t have to listen to my friends mock me by pronouncing my own full name correctly.

My mother calls me Carlie in a way that immediately puts me on edge. We’ll be sitting alone together in a silent room, and before asking me a question she’ll say, “Carlie” so authoritatively it makes me jump out of my skin. Is there someone else in the room she could have been addressing?  Does she see dead people? My father shares my speech impediment but says my name out loud without caring, and when my sister gets frustrated with me she calls me by my first and last name, which I find particularly strange since we share a last name. It feels like fifty percent of her anger is directed at herself. She says it without difficulty so when she does say my name in anger it hurts that much more. However like most people, my brain loves hearing other people say my own name — even if it is in anger. Just don’t ask me to tell you what it is. Say my name casually in the course of our conversation and I feel the thick ice around my heart start to melt; I know you must really like me. Do it a couple times and you’re infatuated. Say my name a few times while you’re screaming at me and I know it’s love. 

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How I feel about everything changes almost daily, and that doesn’t exclude my name. Sometimes I resent it for being mine and not mine at the same time. Other times, I feel such a strong connection to it I can’t imagine walking through life with a different one. It feels like just another idiosyncratic thing about me. Whether I’m hating my name, or staring longingly into your eyes as you casually interweave my name into our conversation, I have to admit it holds some power over me. Say my name and I’m yours. Even though I occasionally stumble over its pronunciation, I don’t plan on ever changing my name. I don’t need any more reasons for an identity crisis.  

a hair story

I am haunted by that ungodly 90s hair flip. It keeps me up at night, thinking about how the ends of my hair can flip up and out while the rest of my hair stays straight. Even when I love my hair, I hate it. It's 2 a.m. and I'm laying awake in a dark room thinking about the damage done by a new haircut. I left the salon with my hair mostly straightened, yet unnaturally flipped out at the ends. Think Sarah Michele Gellar in the 90s or the infamous Rachel Green haircut. The anxiety of it all was just too much. Have I ever even liked a haircut? The answer is unclear. After I’ve jumped out of bed and straightened my newly shortened hair I can decide which parts I need to take the scissor to in order to right all the wrongs my hair has caused me. Then I can sleep soundly while my subconscious ruminates on the cathartic, but most likely horrifying, trim I will give myself in the morning. I’ll fix it while probably making it worse, but at least I know what I’m dealing with now.

After I’ve done my share with the dull hair shears I stole from my father, I am less than pleased. I’m not displeased, but I’m definitely not happy about the newest notches in this stuff that grows out of my head. It is somehow better and worse. The part where I get to contribute to my own haircut is extremely satisfying, but the result is less ‘just slept in cool’ and more ‘I let my four year old neighbor go to town on my hair’. Two days of panic attacks and a few more snips here and there, and I find myself sitting in the chair of the stylist who cut my hair when I was a child. A cool twenty minutes later and I’m watching my new haircut air dry while my mom gets her roots colored. We took one car to be more environmentally conscious. I already feel more like myself.