#1. Intentional Identity
I was 9 when I first got the question. Late fall walking back from school assembly. Prattling about with my two friends. My ill-fitting khakis dragging on the flagstone. Everything was comfortable. Until. Everybody’s favorite 5th grade teacher asked me very politely how I pronounce my name:
"Is it neek-oh or nick-oh?"
*Terror as skies turn black* Where is this coming from?
"I don't know"
"You don't know?" Oh no, she's pushing. Eyeballs are on me.
"Either one. I don't care."
"Ok, I'll call you 'neek-oh' then. Is that ok?" Another question? This is still going on?
"Sure" *9 year olds run away to play soccer.*
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9 years old is a weirdly old age to get asked how to pronounce your name for the first time. Nobody had ever asked before, they had just assumed. That was easier for everybody.
I asked my parents later that day, or 2 years later, what the answer to the question actually is.
*Scoff*
"You don't know how you pronounce your own name? It's ‘nick-oh’ obviously."
Then I heard the story about why Nico isn’t even my first name (parents disagreed on the order, one held out longer than the other). For the next 15 years, people confidently declared to me the correct way to pronounce my name. They rarely agreed with each other.
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Neek-oh vs. Nick-oh. I've lamented not having one name to anchor my identity to. I wasn’t given that gift that it seemed everybody else had been given. I’ve been angry that it couldn't be simpler. I wanted to be able to give a confident "I'm X", so everybody could say "oh ok" and make the requisite assumptions about me and who an "X" is. The impossibility of that has been compounded by the fact that Nico isn’t even my first name. To the government, credit card companies, and any legal entity, I’m not neek-oh or nick-oh. I’m Alexander. Anything to anybody.
At home I became “nick-oh.” At school, largely thanks to that caring 5th grade teacher, I was “neek-oh.” It was a small difference but the result was a constant question buzzing around my head like the bee ruining every picnic. Before I introduce myself to anybody or respond to a nice “Hi, what’s your name?” I have to ask myself, “Who am I to you?” Is this a school acquaintance? Family friend? Who introduced us? What role should I play for you today, sir? And then waiting for the smile of acceptance when I played the correct one. My identity became guessing the right role to survive another social interaction rather than whatever role I ultimately chose.
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I’m not special. Many people have their names butchered. My conflict wasn’t people calling me by the wrong name. It was me not knowing what the right one was. I would have preferred if my name could have defined me.
My name couldn’t define me because I didn’t have only one. I could have morphed in and out of identities that suited me and my goals like Arya Stark. But, unlike Arya, I wasn’t becoming whoever I wanted to be. I was an amalgamation of two identities, and I adopted the easiest one based on the shifting expectations of a given crowd.
That formlessness continued for over a decade. Different groups of friends would meet and I’d have to navigate the inevitable “Why do you call him that?” In college, I decided to end it. I rebranded: Nick. A fresh start. Clean. Simple. The heckling began almost immediately from everybody who knew my name better than I did. I reverted to their preferred.
I recently read a quote from Carl Jung:
"The world will ask you who you are, and if you do not know, the world will tell you."
The world had told me many times, but it couldn't come to a consensus so neither could I.
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After college, my then-girlfriend/now-wife pressed me: “It’s your name. You have to decide.”
“Why do I have to decide?”
Of course I didn’t have to decide. I hadn’t decided for 15+ years. But that conversation planted a seed that bloomed a few years later:
I don’t have to decide. I get to decide.
I had silly-puttied my personality for years based on perceived expectations. But not having a name-based personality to conform to gave me a super power I didn’t realize: defining my identity. My name dissociation hadn’t defined me and therefore freed me. I wasn’t given a definition and therefore had to define myself.
The fun part of going through this revelation as an adult is you get to ask yourself “why” to everything. Why do you do this? Why do you want that? Why is this even a goal? All your fundamental assumptions and beliefs - are they you or what everybody else tells you is you? Your identity becomes intentional as you unwind it from systems, incentives, and inertia. You do things because they’re important to you. You know why they're important and you feel good about that. Intentional identity is a lot of fun. If saying no and breaking a rule because “Hey, I’m me!” is dopamine-pumping joy, intentional identity is long-term satisfaction. Of course, name confusion isn’t required to declare who you are. Many people figure this out on their own and I admire those who are confidently purposeful.
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I’m still an amalgamation, but one of experiences and decisions rather than pronunciations and expectations. I never was Arya and I won’t be her now. I’ve never killed a white walker. I don’t have a posh British accent that’s both delicate and terrifying. But, when I notice myself slipping, I summon my inner Don Draper: the man who decided who he wanted to be and middle fingers to the rest.
Through this continual process of becoming, the question has shifted from “which identity shall I choose?” to “will I choose one?”
The pandemic forced introspection for me as it did for many. In Spring 2020, I was contemplating my career and the next stage. Asking myself, “what will get me to where I want to be” or really “what’s the acceptable path to get there?” It took a few months of writing to myself but it eventually became so clear: if I know what I want to become, become it now.
There are no permissions to wait on. Acceptance may be granted, likelier it will be withheld, but it is not required. It’s so simple. I get to decide, and that’s so much more fun.
Anyway, it’s “nick-oh” you heathens.
