When I go to Starbucks and the barista asks me for my name, I avoid all the hassle that comes with saying my real name. It’s already a mouthful to say “mocha cookie crumble frappuccino.”

Instead, I take the easy route and say “Anna,” saving much trouble for both me and the barista. For as long as I can remember, people have misspelled, mispronounced and otherwise butchered Anamika. To sum it up, having an uncommon name is … inconvenient. 

Don’t get me wrong: I like my name when it’s pronounced right and combined with my last name (which is also often mispronounced, but that’s another story). It actually has a nice ring to it. 

Others’ troubles are understandable, especially if they aren’t Indian — people have never heard of my name, so as a result, they can’t say it right when they see it. So as unfortunate as it sounds, I either awkwardly correct them or accept the new name I am given. 

I often dread attendance, watching the teacher’s lips quiver and waiting for their brow to furrow in confusion as they debate how to say my name out loud. I used to correct my new teachers at the beginning of every year that my name isn’t Annika or Annameeka. It’s Anamika, with a stress on the second syllable. It got too tiring, and legally changing my name to Anámika isn’t ideal. 

So now, I just let my teachers think of me as Annameeka. I’ve learned to respond to a name that is not mine. Not to brag or anything, but it’s kind of like living as two people: a pretty exhilarating life, if I do say so myself. 

I know I sound salty, but I won’t stop going to Starbucks for my mocha cookie crumble frappuccino. Even though I’m always going to turn into a generic Anna there, I still like my name. I like having a unique name that, at least in Saratoga, is mine and mine only.