Carr, among other things.

I hate my name. I hate its immaturity, its naiveté. It is childish and unimportant. It is careless and lackadaisical. It sounds like it belongs to a cartoon character. I’m not a cartoon character. Not usually.
I’m told it means something in another language. It doesn’t matter. I only speak one.
Carr. The r’s seem to roll on forever. A pointless, incomplete thought with no destination or definition. If you’re not paying attention, you might write too many. But who would pay attention to a name like Carr?
Children would. Young children. Young children who think they’re funny.

“You mean like the car that you drive?”
No. Not like the car that you drive. But thanks for playing.

“Do you have a car, Carr? Cuz you’re name’s Carr. Get it?”
Yes, Jack. I get it. I got it the first time you made that joke, I got it when your mom repeated it to my mom at baseball practice, I got it when you whispered it to my first crush (Chelsea or Rebecca or something, I’m terrible with names.) I even got it when you ran into me on the playground so you could say you were hit by a car[r] and I told you to upgrade your next wreck to a big, yellow school bus.
And whaddaya know? I still get it.

I always considered giving up my jalopy of a middle name for my first name, Donald. Donald. The middle letters flow between the sturdy bookends like water in a stone basin, protective and unbreakable. Born from the names of ancient Gaelic kings, it melts dignity with durability and elegance with power.
Donald was my grandfather’s name. He was a highly respected lawyer and a fantastically charming man. People tell me he could walk into whatever restaurant he wanted, wait as little as he wanted and eat whenever he wanted. A mafia boss of prosecution, a Don of the Law.
I didn’t know my grandfather. He was killed by a friend of a friend of a convicted murderer Don had put in jail a few years back and the town wept.
That’s a lot of weight to carry on seven letters.

Plus, the name Donald does belong to a cartoon character. A pantless, hotheaded cartoon character.

“You mean like the duck?”
No, I don’t, but please continue quacking like a maniac because your humor is both original and refreshing.

Perhaps Carr isn’t so bad. It is short for Carrera, (or “race” to you Latinos and Americanos forced to take Spanish by the State of California) which is much cooler than most cars. People don’t forget Carr (maybe tasteless jokes trigger our photographic memories) and anyone who mispronounces it can immediately be classified as not-worth-trying-to-hold-an-intelligent-conversation-with. It sounds exactly like it looks. Read.

Alas! What’s in a name?
Kidding. Far too cliché. Clichés are reserved for people with names like William or Barack.
But you can’t judge a book by its cover.

Names are more than just easy labels. They inevitably become a part of our selves. They leave their footsteps throughout our experiences like an unshakable yet unthreatening stalker. They change the way we gaze at the world and the way it gazes also back into us. (Maybe if Friedrich Nietzsche had been named Freddy Nielson he would have been a pastor or a children’s book author.)
To my friends, I am Carr. To bankers, DMV officers and substitute teachers, my name is Donald – an anonymity I thoroughly enjoy. When I owe thousands in credit card debt and car payments, I’ll make sure to not answer any calls for Donald. He’s out of town for the weekend, but Carr would be glad to relay him a message via text or instant message or something juvenile like that.
To my dad, I’m DC. To my sister and my mom, I am whatever pet name they think will make me blush. All my names represent the same person, slightly tailored for the situation. My names shape me. They haunt me, they precede me, they define me. My name is me.
I don’t mind my name. Sometimes I hide from it, sometimes I hide behind it and sometimes I am proud of it. But it’s always mine. Nobody has to clarify it with a last name or a spelling variation. It’s just Carr. Four letters. Quick, easy and absolute.
I like my name.

I still hope Jack gets hit by a bus.