Bitch, please.

My parents are from Brooklyn, New York.

If you’re a New York native, specifically Brooklyn, it’s pronounced New Yowahk. If you live in upstate New York, the silent “r” seems to disappear and most letters of the alphabet are back in play. Strangely, I have some upstate NY friends that speak with a harder “r” than most.

Maybe they’re compensating for their southern counterparts.

My name is Sean. The spelling of it has plagued me my entire life. If you were my mom or my dad, the correct way to say it was Showahn. And don’t rush it- be sure to get both syllables in where they belong.

Maybe that’s wrong- maybe it’s Shojaun with a silent “j” like in Jesus.

No, the other one.

Upstate, Boston, and beyond

Upstate NY natives always called me Shaan. I can only assume that they were being unknowingly sympathetic toward me because of how those nearer to the Big Apple said my name. Even so, they also missed it by just a smidge.

It was all in complete contrast to most of those in New England where I grew up. My friends all called me Shawn. I know, right? The nerve. A few rebels went with Shaun.

My Boston friends have their own spin on it depending on what part of town they’re from.

If they say Bahston they’re calling me Shahn. You can determine who those people are when they talk about Hahvahd. On the other side of town in Bowaston, I’m Showan. It’s a distant relative of my parents’ New York version.

I used to think that I was unique until I did a search and found 500 other Sean McCarthys in the Boston area alone. Maybe that’s why people have as many variations of how to pronounce it as they do clam chowdas.

Don’t even get me started on my friends from Rhode Island. They’re stuck in between Bowaston, Showan, and Harvard. Talk about not knowing where the “r” actually belongs. Pick a fucking consonant, people.

Sticks and stones

From teachers on the first days of a school year to anyone reading my name from a roster, you could see them all try their hardest to guess at the pronunciation. Over the years, I’ve just accepted being called Seen, Shane, Seehan, or Sheen.

You would think, though, that as people got older they’d have met a few people with my name and spelling and maybe figured it out.

Nope. No one gives a shit. As soon as people of all ages open their mouths to say my name I’m transported back to fourth grade with yet another fill-in teacher missing the mark.

There was one substitute who regularly took the reigns for numerous grade levels during my grammar school days. She got the pronunciation of my name wrong every fucking time. What a bitch.

Then again, the cheering change of attitude as the entire class entered the room realizing that we had her for the day may not have helped. Those of us that ignored our prior homework assignment quickly knew that we just got a lifeline. Our give-a-shit-ness as a whole quickly faded away and things were about to get pretty relaxed and unruly.

This all may have contributed to her less than pleasant demeanor and unwillingness to cooperate with how to properly say my birth-given name.

Roll call in the morning had her using guess number one. If she called on me to read aloud, she tossed out version number two. Watch out if she was trying to get my attention for me screwing off in class. It was like she was randomly throwing darts at a dartboard and trying to put my fucking eye out- Shane, Sheen, Scott!

Yes, I’m positive that at one time she actually called me Scott. It was clear by this point that she’d lost all faith in any potential humanity or capabilities of childhood students and said fuck these kids while throwing in the towel.

This all normally occurred within the first 30 minutes of the day every time she was our substitute.

The fact that she kept coming back for more over the years is pretty astounding and I’m kind of finding more respect for her decades later.

But then I think back to how well she pronounced the word asshole.

It was seemingly her preferred title for me as I’d regularly hear her say it under her breath when I was nearby. Maybe the trick to getting my name correctly was to say it quietly in the same manner.

Maybe the key was to just. settle. down., Mrs. whateveryournamewas.

Traumatized, or…Trammatized

My whole life reads like a Hooked on Phonics course.

Thanks, Mom & Dad.

I won’t even get into how I had to have speech therapy as a child because I pronounced the word orange as awrange due to being brought up around that same New York accent. People way up north apparently figured I had a speech impediment and they were determined to beat it out of me.

After perfecting it and nailing the citrus fruit every time from then on, I found myself at a friend’s house in Rhode Island years later where he offered me awrange juice for breakfast one morning.

For fucks sake.

At Starbucks I just tell them my name is Bahb because it’s easier. They still usually get it wrong and spell it Bob.

They probably went to Hahvahd.