“Why am I named Olivia again?” I complained to my mom in a shrill 5 year old’s voice as she was stuffing my pre-school bag impatient to go home. “Don’t ask me, ask your dad.” My dad named me, like every Russian baby the dad names the child. My mom tells me that dad discovered my name when watching an American movie and hearing the “beautiful” name Olivia, like grabbing it out of thin air he chose what I would symbolize me for the rest of my existence.

I stared at my artwork hanging from the ceiling, a Christmas tree splattered in glitter, adorned with childish useless things. In the corner sprawled with long detailed strokes was written, A-L-I-V-I-A, back home in Russia I had to spell my name with an “A” because no matter how many times I told everyone how to pronounce my name, they still butchered it. “Oolivia?” they would say, it wasn’t native which I repulsed since nobody could read it right.

I loathed my name; it was permanently attached to my life for infinity. It was like the annoying kid your teacher assigned you to sit by in class for the rest of the year, and no matter how many times you had fought with the kid, no matter how many times you begged your teacher to place you somewhere else you were trapped and there was no way out. This uncomfortable name followed me universally. It was written on everything I possessed, to my lunch box from all of my school supplies to the inside tag of my jacket. Why couldn’t I have a normal name like Natasha, Dasha, or even my mom’s lovely name which I have always wanted; Svetlana? Which translates to light in Russian, what’s more exotic than that? The name Ulga even appealed to me at time, THAT’S how much I detested my name, so much that Ulga was beautiful music to my ears.

When I moved to the states and people could declare my name clearly and perfect, I accepted my name for what it was. Now since my I felt comfortable with my first, “Kadyrova”, my last name became despicable. Since the 1st grade every single time someone stumbled upon it, their tongues would trip and do tricks, something a professional gymnast would do at the Olympics; making sounds that I’ve never even heard before. Every awards day they would announce my name and puke it in front of hundreds of people, embarrassing me so many times that by the age of 12 it became an everyday occurrence.

The acceptance of Olivia came gradually but sulfide when I found my name in a baby book, Olivia; a symbol of peace and dignity. My middle name, Damirovna, another challenge for speakers to accomplish. The meaning behind my middle name one of which I admire. It’s a phrase, “bringing peace of mind” and my last name you may ask. Well, I don’t know what it means, my mom doesn’t either. I guess it will forever be a mystery. It wasn’t but a few months ago, when an opportunity came to change my name. My citizenship papers came in the mail, and it only took my five seconds to decline. Names are funny like that, at first its gawky and stiff but as time passes, it grows into something natural and perfect.