My name is Dren, even though my birth certificate clearly states that “Adrienne JoAnn” was born to Ann and Joe on a rainy Tuesday afternoon (well, my mom always adds the weather bit – critical to our life journey running away from and back into the constant drizzle). Though my mother says I have a beautiful and wonderful and correctly-spelled name, people have always had a hard time pronouncing or saying it:
- Aren (that was my brother when he was little and liked to “bite his sistie’s bapple” – aw, tender)
- Book-Aid (that was a stretch)
In middle school I began to understand that I had a brief bit of control over my identity. I chose to drop the name and go by initials: A.J. In high school I became lazy and dropped the periods: AJ. In college my roommate became lazy and dropped a cap: Aj. And my truly “efficient” friends simply call me “J”.
Except for one: a friend who decided to create a completely unique moniker so that I would always know that it was him calling my name – Dren. It worked: short, creative, casual more than lazy – just like me.
With so many names, I either answer to anything or nothing at all. But that kinda fits with America, eh? Gross excess is only half enough.