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

