Having a french name has manifested problems for me since my first time ever attending school. Teachers look at the attendance sheet and furrow their eyebrows. Jacques looks like a mouse trap, just waiting for you to try and grab the cheese. At first glance, there’s a number of ways the name could be pronounced; and if you don’t know how to speak french, there’s a good chance you’ll pronounce it wrong.

The nickname Jack has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. It’s a shield, combatting the mis-pronounciation of my full name. Everyone who knows me calls me Jack, and those who don’t eventually learn to do so. Today, hardly anyone calls me Jacques. Only my mother, in her moments of frustration, calls me by my first name. If I decide not to do my chores, an inevitable “Jacques!” will soon follow.

My name is unique, there’s no doubt about it. Even though it can be rather annoying, it does open up a window of opportunity. I get to choose what I want people to call me. I could go by Jack, James, Jake, whatever I want. I get to choose what someone will address me with when they first meet me. With that said, I’ve never asked to be called anything other than Jack.

Although my name is often butchered when I meet someone new, I don’t really care much. Infact, I’ve never paid much attention to how my name is pronounced. I don’t really think it matters all that much. Jacques, Jack, Jake; any of them work. My name doesn’t define me, it’s just a means for people to get my attention. It’s a word to associate with me. At the end of the day, I’m not my name, my name is me.