Though my name came from a Norwegian immigrant who lost her mind on the prairies, that wasn’t why it caused me discomfort as a child.
At summer’s end, I would brace myself for the inevitable embarrassment known as roll call. Most people butchered my name and expected me to be a boy—but none more than my new teachers.
Time has passed and, from the other side of the desk, I’ve grown to appreciate having such an uncommon moniker. Still, imagine my relief when–asked my name by a semi-bored barista–I suddenly realized I could say ANYTHING AT ALL.