The flavour of a name
Everyone says my name the best it can be said in English. I don’t know many people yet. I’m not so bold in this cold minty space. And that’s okay.
Perhaps, It would be far too mundane if everyone said your name with the exact same flavour. (Illustration By: Hannah Arabella Gabling // The Underground).
"… am I saying that right?"
The professor repeats my name in a wave of coolness. Mint cuts across the room, refreshing, but pervading; something you may enjoy, but a flavour you cannot relax to.
By the end of the semester, the smaller classes of my cohort begin to smell different. Now my name tastes like fruity gum, carrying a temporary sweetness that will last until the very last email correspondence about exam questions, and then fade away.
"Okay, I'm sorry!"
My hand is on the nearest object I can find to throw. When my siblings say my name, it reminds me of orange juice. Sometimes I hate it. Sometimes it’s the perfect amount of sweet and sour. Sometimes it's so pungent I can feel it in my throat. Depends on the brand. Depends on the day.
"Hey, did you get my text about the notes?"
Classmates at the university remind me of apples. There may be different kinds and all different sorts of amazing apples, but they're also always there. Like everyone in university. Whether the lecture hall is big or small, there's always someone there. But apples are underrated. When we have only apples left, I remind my mother to bring other fruits.
"Hi!"
Hot chocolate. Classmates from high school said it like the flavour of hot chocolate. The warmth of a winter night. Somehow knowing everybody even when you didn't. Nostalgic, like the flavour of the old school, brown-plastic lidded Tim Hortons hot chocolate.
"You don't eat properly."
When my mother says my name it radiates off the walls as she tries getting my attention, bouncing around like rays of sunlight, warm like the flavour of cinnamon shining through in a dessert.
In a wispy dream, these flavours combine, and my professor asks why I didn’t correct their pronunciation of my name. People from high school say hello and people from university don’t. My parents and siblings wonder why. I sit in the middle offering explanations. The room smells overwhelming and echoes several pronunciations.
Everyone says my name the best it can be said in English. I don’t know many people yet. I’m not so bold in this cold minty space. And that’s okay. It would be far too mundane if everyone said your name with the exact same flavour. Every place would leave the same taste, every memory would be tinted the same. I’ve learned to love the differences, embrace the discomfort, enjoy the new minty scent following each new class, and note down the way my name echoes from every new person.
