Just as I’ve come to terms with my nose, I embrace my name. It’s a good litmus test. If a guy remembers my name after I introduce myself, he’s made it past the first test (of many). If he still doesn’t get it after I’ve corrected him, buh-bye. You see, now that I’m past the insecure stage of wallowing in self pity and the delusion that “no one” gets my name right, I know that many people do. They are the people who are genuinely interested in me. Sure, some of my co-workers still don’t pronounce it right. But my friends, all the good people in my life, call me Maresha as though it’s just as normal as Jane.
And as for what my parents were thinking when they picked Maresha, they thought it would be much nicer to name their daughter something a little more interesting and certainly more meaningful than Emily or Jessica (sorry if your name is Emily or Jessica). My name has an interesting story behind it. It comes from the Biblical city of Mareshah. It means “place at the top; summit,” (it’s like my parents knew I’d be an overachiever) and my parents dropped the last ‘h’ to make it more feminine. When I was teaching in Nevada, I discovered that most of my students couldn’t tell me what their name meant, even if it would be easy to find out by looking in any baby names book in publication. Why? Their parents just picked something from the book because they liked the way it sounded. Scary since names are important. Think about it, you have a totally different expectation of a Bambi than of a Susan.
These judgments are made for guys’ names too. I place a certain amount of importance on the names of guys I would consider dating. I’m sorry, but I can’t see myself moaning, “Oh, Ralph” or “Oh, Herb” between impassioned kisses. They’re too comically old-fashioned. On the other end of the spectrum are names like Hunter or Brady, which scream “douchebag” and names with alternate spellings that scream “my mommy equates illiteracy with creativity and she will probably smother me for the rest of my life, crippling my ability to function as an adult.” (e.g. Kaleb, Benjamyn.)
If you still don’t believe names are important, listen in on a couple discussing what to name their baby. I have it on good authority that many of these discussions include some version of “we are not using Damon because I went to school with a Damon who was a total prick.” I myself already have names picked out for two daughters if I have any. They are from literary characters I admire, and they’re definitely unusual. My daughters might struggle with that when they are young, but when they are a little older they will appreciate that when they are in class and their teacher calls their name, ten other girls with the same name won’t also answer. And when they are older still, they will appreciate that it helps determine whether someone is genuinely interested in them. Always, I hope, they will appreciate that their mother put serious thought into what to name them and they will be able to tell anyone the story of their name.