M
y
grandfather
on
my
mom’s side of the family
has a lexicon of cliches —
a signature catchphrase, if you will,
for almost any situation. “Put an egg
in your shoe and beat it” happens to
be my favorite, but there’s also one
that I’ve only recently gained an
appreciation for:
“Call me anything you want. Just
don’t call me late for dinner.”
Over the past three and
a half years, I’ve become
immune
to
the
improper
pronunciation of my name.
You heard that right.
Last year, a friend of mine
sat waiting for me to finish an
editing shift at The Daily. As
a (former) editor, it was not
uncommon to hear my name
from across the newsroom
multiple
times
per
hour
during production. As we
were leaving The Daily that
night, my friend said she heard
multiple pronunciations of my
name in just a few hours, and I
responded to all of them.
*****
“It’s LAA-ruh, like with the
‘A’ in ‘cat’ or ‘happy’ or the
first one in ‘salad.’”
“Am I saying it right?” they
respond, releasing a sound that
matches the “A” in “Claire,” or
“hair,” rather than the hard,
pungent vowel of my name.
“No, but it’s okay.”
Then I brace myself for
one of three inevitable looks:
embarrassment, frustration or
confusion. I tell them it’s okay,
that I don’t care what they call
me, as long as it sounds somewhat close
to “Lara” and isn’t “Laura” we can still
be friends. This — usually — is to no avail.
I’m then thrown into uncomfortable
rounds of mispronunciation: slower,
louder, higher, then back to slower
again. They wait for a nod of approval
that probably won’t come. I can’t tell
you the number of times I’ve listened
to: “Lair-uh? Laiir-uh? Laaaiir-uh?”
as I contemplate becoming one of
those people who just goes by their
middle name. Kate Moehlman has a
nice ring to it, anyway.
But I would never do that. It’s
Jewish tradition to name a child after
a deceased family member, and mine
comes from combining the first two
letters of the names of my great uncle
Larry and great-grandmother Rachel
— people who mean a lot to my parents
and who, by extension, mean a lot to me.
For some context, I’m from a
northern New Jersey suburb of New
York. The classic “New Jersey Accent”
isn’t that strong in my hometown
(people say “wah-ter,” not “woo-
der”), but I also grew up around many
Brooklyn accents. My mother says
“Flah-rida” instead of Florida, my
grandfather regularly drops his “Rs,”
and when my grandmother was alive,
she would say President Obama’s last
name as if the last four letters were
pronounced the same as those in
Alabama. Aunts, uncles, cousins and
close friends in New York and New
Jersey all said my name the way I
do. That’s not to say teachers or new
friends didn’t mess up on the first try.
They did, but I usually remember it
sticking with time.
It wasn’t until my freshman year of
college, the first significant amount
of time I’d spent away from the East
Coast bubble of north Jersey, that I
felt as though I was defending my own
pronunciation on a weekly, if not daily,
basis. Freshman year I was constantly
meeting new people and introducing
myself, my intended major, my dorm
and where I came from. And with that
came a lot of phonetic explanation.
There
were
those
awkward
moments that still happen today — in
which I go in for the handshake or
the wave or whatever is appropriate
at the time but, simultaneously,
try to quell a small tug-of-war that
wages in my mind. One side tells me
to say my name the right way, even
though it will cause confusion and
an unwanted explanation. The other
tells me to fake a Midwestern accent
for the sake of convenience. Just say
Lair-uh.
But it feels too strange. Sometimes
I’ll introduce myself as “Lair-uh,” but
the sound coming out of my mouth
sounds 10 times weirder than, say,
speaking in the third person. In fact, it
feels like speaking in the third person,
incorrectly.
My
self-consciousness
gets to me.
I would be lying if I said I didn’t know
this would be an issue before coming to
Michigan. My dad is from metropolitan
Detroit and his parents are native
Detroiters. I remember from a young
age thinking my dad’s family says my
name with a strange pronunciation.
They say, “pop” instead of “soda” (my
dad has since self-corrected), and they
say “in line” instead of “on line” when
they’re waiting to check out at the
grocery store. (I’m embarrassed to say
I’m not sure what my dad says off the
top of my head.)
But my dad’s slightly modified
pronunciation of my name is a touchy
subject.
“If your dad helped name you,
doesn’t that mean the Midwestern
pronunciation is also right?” is a
common question I field.
And to that I respond: My dad’s
Midwestern accent is strange. He says
my name the way you would imagine
a Midwesterner living in north Jersey
for the past 30 years might say
it — entirely unique. I know it
sounds different than the way
my mom or my brother or my
grandfather say it, but it will
never be “wrong” to me, no
matter how much I tease him
for it. And while it’s obviously
not “incorrect,” it’s also not
the pronunciation that I use,
so I won’t.
I realize I’m not the only
person with a name that is
difficult to pronounce. I’m
not the only person who
corrects the professor’s brutal
pronunciation on the first
day (re: Laura), even if it’s
hopeless. But while it feels
important to correct someone
at first, I don’t make it a habit.
I won’t make people feel bad
after the first slip-up unless
they ask me to.
Different
people
have
different, subtle variations,
and I’m fine with that. If
anything, it’s a subtle yet
special reminder of where
I am. When I’m home from
school in New Jersey, the
pronunciation I use and the
one I grew up with sounds
sweet
and
comforting
coming
from
family
members
and
high
school friends. When I’m away, the
Midwestern accent and its many
different forms remind me that I’m
in a different space with people from
unique backgrounds.
To be quite honest, I love my
name, it’s subtle uniqueness and
the
occasional
“Doctor
Zhivago”
reference it brings my way.
And when people call attention to
it, in those uncomfortable moments
— when they expect me to become
frustrated,
or
instead
become
frustrated with themselves for not
landing my strong East Coast accent,
I like to keep my grandfather’s iconic
catchphrase in the back of my mind:
“Call me anything you want. Just
don’t call me late for dinner.”
Or Laura.
Wednesday, January 17, 2018// The Statement
7B
ILLUSTRATION BY HANNAH MYERS
Call me by my name, or don’t
BY LARA MOEHLMAN, 2017 MANAGING STATEMENT EDITOR