My name is Nathan. Many people call me, Nate. And I don't give a shit either way. When I was in Kindergarten, this bothered the teacher so much that we had the following conversation:
Teacher: Do you prefer Nathan or Nate?
Me: For what?
Teacher: For your name.
Me: Most people call me, Nate. Some people call me, Nathan.
Teacher: But which do you prefer?
Me: Am I really supposed to care about this?
Being my teacher must have been a goddamn honor, eh?
Eleven years later, I ran into a doctor who had a huge problem with my inability to choose Nathan or Nate. I was staying in a mental hospital and we were “working through” some “issues” (in my mind we were just talking about stuff but whatever). The doctor helping me with these issues felt that I did not have a strongly defined sense of self.
Doctor: It starts with your name.
Me: What does?
Doctor: Your identity.
Me: Oh.
Doctor: Now, what would you like people to call you?
Me: Captain Hi-Top the Love Commander.
Doctor: Your choices are Nathan or Nate, for now anyway.
Me: It's all the same to me.
Doctor: How can that be?
Me: Well, when I was born, my parents named me Nathan and one of the nicknames that comes with that name is Nate. Some friends and family use the nickname, others do not. And either way, I don't give a shit. I mean, they're not calling me late for dinner, are they?
Doctor: This is not typical behavior for a sixteen year old.
Me: Wow, they really pay you for observations like this?
Being my doctor was definitely an honor.
A few years later, in my first office-located, college-degree-required job, my coworkers struggled to decide whether or not to call me Nate or Nathan because I told them point-blank that I did not care one way or another, but that if people got upset about the fact that I did not care, then I would get really annoyed and start punching stuff.
So they settled on Nathan.
Now, as the years have gone by, Nathan and Nate have settled into their own characters. Nathan is my name at work. Nathan wears suits and complains about the rising cost of health insurance. Nate seems to be my name at the bar and on the town. Nate wears T-shirts and bitches about the demise of the Bucs running game. And I'm fine with how that worked out because I never really acknowledged that there was anything to work out. Which brings me to my early afternoon conversation with Joe the Deli Manager.
Joe: Hey, I been meaning to ask you, do you prefer Nathan or Nate?
Me: I don't care.
Joe: That's weird.
Me: Why?
Joe: ‘Cause it's your name. Everyone cares about their name.
Me: Dude, just make me a damn sandwich and spare me the psychobabble.
Joe: Somebody's diet has put him in an off mood today.
Me: Fuck you.
It amazes me that this same problem has been bothering people around me since I was five years old: namely, that I don't care whether I'm called Nathan or Nate.
How can such a thing annoy anybody? I mean, haven't I made it easier on the world around me by stating that they can choose between my two names?
Regardless, this is a stupid problem to have. So from now on, when anyone asks, I'm just gonna go with the old standby line from Dead Poet's Society.
“Dammit, Charlie, the name's Nuwanda.”