That's Not My Name

The summer after I graduated from high school, I noticed that I had a speech problem. Although it seems strange to develop a speech impediment at the age of eighteen, that's what happened to me. When I went to camp that summer, I noticed that people kept misunderstanding one word that I said--that word being my own name. This had never happened to me before, but it's happened regularly since.

"Madison." Or, as I say it, "Maaaaadison."

The problem stems from an improper pronunciation of the "a." Although I generally don't have a Southern twang, despite my Carolinian origins, I use the long Southern "a" when saying my name. I just can't seem to fix it.

Last week, I was at a babysitting interview with my friend Corinne. We both introduced ourselves to the mother, who then introduced us to her two-year-old twins.

"Come meet Corinne and Allison," Maura said.

For an entire hour, I didn't correct her. At this point, the Madison-Allison mistake is such a part of my daily life that I get tired of correcting it. At the end of the interview, Corinne referred to me by my actual name and Maura realized that she'd been calling me by the wrong name.

Allison is the most common mistake, but there have been many others. I've had Starbucks cups ranging from Mallison to Monica to Maxine to Motza to my personal favorite, Mabison.

"What an interesting name," the barista said.

"It's not that interesting,'" I thought.

Then, she handed me a cardboard cup with Mabison scrawled across the top. Indeed, Mabison is an interesting name.

The most peculiar name-confusion situation I've experienced, perhaps, was on a random date.

January before last, I went on a quick weekend trip home to see my newborn nephew. I flew out of JFK for the first time, and I was not exactly sure how to get there on the train. Because I'm not the savviest of travelers (I once sat in the middle of an airport bawling because my flight was canceled, and I've missed two buses going out of town in the past week), I asked the mid-twenties man standing next to me if I was on the right train.

"Yes," he said.

When the train reached our stop, he showed me how to get on the AirTran and even paid for me to go through. We chatted for a few minutes on the AirTran, until he reached his stop. As he was getting off the AirTran, he asked me if I'd like to get coffee sometime, so I gave him my number.

He put his hand out.

"I'm Matt, by the way," he said.

"I'm Maaaaadison," I said.

He looked puzzled as he stepped onto the platform, and I knew that he had misunderstood my name.

A few days later, I met Matt (Disclaimer: I do not usually go on dates with random men) for coffee at one of my favorite coffee spots in the city--Stumptown in Ace Hotel. Generally, you order coffee at the little coffee bar at the front of the hotel and then sit in the swanky lobby.

This particular evening, however, the hotel was having some kind of mixer in the lobby, and people were everywhere. Matt and I both ordered Americanos and then unsuccessfully attempted to find seats. We kept bumping into people, and, after I spilled half my Americano on myself, we went back to the coffee bar to stand and chat--for three hours.

He assured me that he was not a creep and that he had never before asked anyone from a train out on a date. As the coffee date progressed, however, I noticed that he had not called me by name. He left to use the restroom.

"Now, I have to ask you a question," he said when he came back. "How do you spell your name?"

"Whatever you think my name is is not my name," I said (which, looking back, is a creepy response). "What do you think my name is?"

He hesitated. "Is it...Maxim?" he said. "M-A-X-I-M?"

I laughed, shook my head, and, of course, told him my name.

A few days later, Matt asked me to go to dinner. I declined. You should never trust a man who thinks your name is "Maxim."