What's my name again?

Reflections on the repeated use of pseudonyms, identity, and names.

Over the past two years, I've come to understand the power of repetition.

When I began working at a crisis call center, I was told to use a pseudonym when interacting with callers. I chose "Patrick" because it's easy to hear over the phone. It has the added bonus of being generic, a name people have heard before, one they are familiar with.

It's not a name I have a relationship with. It is not my nickname or middle name. I have no relatives, friends, or pets, living or dead named Patrick. It was a neutral name.

At the beginning of every call, I introduce myself using my pseudonym:

"Hello, my name is Patrick."

At first, it felt strange, like I was doing something illegal, some type of identity theft. My real name mistakenly slipped out many times in those early days, and, for some reason, that felt equally strange. Neither name felt like it should be spoken.

After two years, averaging 500 calls per month, I estimate that I've said "my name is Patrick" aloud at least 12,000 times.

Q: How often do I say my real name?

A: Usually, that's reserved for meeting new people, ordering a coffee, or calling the cable company.

Q: And how often do I do those things?

A: Certainly not anywhere close to 6,000 times a year.

I wonder how many more years I'd need to do this work to reach a point where I've said my pseudonym aloud more than I've uttered my real name.

Is there a threshold where, once reached, my name will effectively become "Patrick"? A name is a phonemic object used to refer to another person. Currently, in most of my interpersonal interactions, I refer to myself as "Patrick" and am referred to by others as "Patrick." I suspect the pseudonym is on the precipice of eclipsing my legal name.

On those occasions when I do use my real name, I hesitate.

When the barista asks, "Can I get a name for the order?" I become bifurcated. I self-consciously stutter and look at the ground. I must appear inebriated or exhausted in these moments. I’m the shy child trying to hide behind his mother's leg as she talks with a stranger.

How can I not know my name and speak it confidently? I've been stuck with the damn thing for thirty-two years! Isn't that one of the few things I should know? People fresh out of a coma are more assertive with their names than I am.

To say my real name correctly, I must pause and focus on embodying the pronunciation. I parse my lips together as if to whistle and puff out a strong torrent of air for an explicit "Wi" sound. I feel my tongue lift and throw itself against the soft flesh behind my incisors to achieve the final "l."

If I rush through it, the two names elide into one another: "Pa..Will" or "PWill" will come blurting out.

I occasionally find myself recalling a friend who adopted a seven-year-old German Shepherd and decided to change her given name. I remember wishing him luck on his fool's errand: if an old dog can't learn new tricks, she surely can't be bothered to change her name. I couldn't imagine the dog’s confusion.

I don't need to imagine anymore.