If time machines are ever invented, and I live to see that day, I would like to go back to 1988. October 1, 1988, to be precise. However, since time machines only move in time and not space, I would first have to make my way to Nassau County on Long Island and then travel back in time to October 1, 1988. After I’ve gotten there I would go to Nassau County Hospital, find the maternity ward, find my mother, knock her unconsciousness, steal my birth certificate, and spell my name “Jacey”.
Though both my parents will swear to God above that the name “Gyasi” is a girl’s name, I have yet to find a source that lists the name as such. (It’s a boy’s name. An African boy’s name. I’ve met an African man with this name. We’re friends on facebook. ) In fact, my name isn’t even unisex. It’s straight up testosterone with a side of Adam’s apple. It means “terrific man”. What does the name “Jacey” mean? Beautiful flower! I would’ve been a beautiful flower, instead I get to be a terrific man.
Could you imagine if our names dictated our personalities? Like people named Alexander would constantly be defending men. Or people name Olivia would lead elf armies. Or people named Michael would always ask, “Who is like God?”
Or people named Bella would constantly be whining and falling in love with the undead.
This would mean that instead of being a beautiful flower loved and adored by all, I would instead be Butchy McButcherson with a mullet haircut and flannel overalls. I don’t know if they make flannel overalls, but in my Butchawesomeness, I’m sure I would find a pair. (Yes, I am aware that this paragraph is extremely stereotypical, but I’m angry.)
Not only does my name have a horrific meaning, but you’d be hard pressed to find someone who can pronounce it correctly the first time. True, when I tell people how to say my name they go, “Oh, I see it now! That’s a really cool name!” But usually this exclamation is preceded by, “How do you say that? Gee-Jah-Si?” Or “Jaw-See?” Or “Gy-Ah-Si”. Or “(awkward pause) I’m not even going to try to pronounce this. By-Ing!” (That last one was what happens when people try to forego embarrassment by ignoring my first name and calling me by my surname. They always fail on that end because my last name is as infuriating as my first.)
I don’t know who reads this blog, but if any of you are considering reproduction in the near future, there are a few things you should consider when picking a name for your progeny:
1) Does the name have more consonants than vowels? If so, scratch it.
2) If combined with your surname, will your child’s name have every letter of the alphabet? If so, scratch it.
3) Is your surname easily mispronounced? If so, combine it with a name like Lydia or Elijah, not Afamungoolaladaise!xobile.
4) Remember that there is a thin line between creativity and cruelty. Naming your child Diva Muffin, Rocket, Peanut Kai, Steelwool Wombat, Jermajesty, Sage Moonblood, Tu Morrow, or Fifi Trixiebell does not make you a creative baby naming genius, it make you a thoughtless, self-involved idiot.
5) Naming your child some variation of your name is pretentious. I will not waver on this point. This is why I will not be naming any of my daughters Jaqueline Christine or Jacinda Corianne. Nor will my husband be allowed to name our sons any name remotely related to his.
To be honest, I can’t really complain too much. Before the disaster that was my name my parents had the brilliant idea to name my sister “Akira”. Like the Japanese anime. Like the Japanese cyberpunk anime about a boy with psionic abilities.
Actually, I’ve seen the film and it’s not half bad.