Yesterday I had brunch with my mama, and I can’t remember how this conversation started, but one moment she was suddenly asking me “Do you like your name?”
Without even hesitating, I responded, “Yes! Of course!”
She smiled and said, “I remember poring through a list of names and Naseem just stood out to me… it felt right. I knew you’d be a Naseem.”
Of course, I couldn’t always say that I loved my name…
There is a vivid memory floating around the back of my head that I desperately wanted to change my name to Kelly in second grade.
How does an eight year old decide with such conviction at that age
“oh shit gotta change my name ASAP, brb?”
(I remember why I wanted the name Kelly: one of my favorite waitresses at the chelokabobi in town was named Kelly, and baba and I frequented that place with all my amoo’s in tow on a weekly basis). I told my parents about this desire, and of course, they did not oblige my request.
Fast forward to the reckless and angsty age of fourteen, where identity crisis is unavoidable. Imagine the extra heaping of namak on my puberty-ridden rage wounds of wondering “who the hell am I turning into” with a name like Naseem on top of all the ish you deal with as a teenager.