Just this morning, I realized that without any intention or realization on my part, I’ve utterly given up one of the greatest battles of my life.
I know what you’re thinking: ending world hunger? Making peace in the Middle East? Finally learning how to cook?
Nothing that prolific, I assure you. The battle I have slowly given up on is a great one,* the battle to get people to properly pronounce my name.
My given name is Angelique. While family and close friends to call me Angel, I feel that “Angel” sounds something like a stripper that gives happy endings in the Champagne Room for an extra $10*. Naturally, I don’t at all mind such a mental picture when it comes to my personal life, but in any professional or intellectual capacity, I go right for Angelique.
My theory is that the problem with Angelique is the Q. We don’t use Qs a lot and frankly, I think they just throw people off. My entire life, I’ve spent the better part of my time attempting to correct people who accidentally refer to me as any of the following: Angela, Angie, Angelina, Angelica, Angelic, Angelynne, and any other variation of Ang+some ending. All of my corrections are in vain though, as people will perpetually continue to get my name wrong.
Spanish speakers call me “An-hell-eek-a”, that I don’t mind as it’s just a different pronunciation. French speakers call me “On-shell-ee” or something of that nature- again, that I don’t so much mind.
And yet, I’ve noticed that lately everyone is still getting my name wrong and rather than correcting them, I just roll with it. Oh, and it’s not just the Ang names I respond to any more, oh no. We have a client who calls me Monique (even while looking directly at my business card), while another calls me Rachel (I’m guessing that sounds something similar to “Angel” when said quickly).
Hell, my friend’s 18 month old calls me Maggie (we have NO idea where he picked that up, everyone refers to me as Angel around him) and you know, I answer to it.
So what great battle have you recently given up on?
*Actually, when my mom told my grandfather she wanted to name me something where my nickname would be Angel, he said, “All the Angels I know are hookers!” Which was directly followed by a swift smack to the back of the head by my very Italian grandmother (those Italian women love smacking people in the head) who said, “So, EXACTLY HOW MANY HOOKERS DO YOU KNOW?” Ah, good times.