#but unlike nickel (who was in the middle of every character i cared about) i have no real motivation to go analyzing to find it

[smile-files]

at the end of the day... suitcase and marshmallow are cool as hell (whatever is going on with knife)

[dearevanhansenofficial]

4TH ANNUAL DEAR EVAN HANSEN COLLEGE ESSAY WRITING CHALLENGE 2022

In partnership with Gotham Writers and the Broadway Education Alliance, Dear Evan Hansen invited students across North America to write a college-application style essay that describes an experience with or ideas about reinvention at any stage of their life.

READ FINALIST MAIRÉAD’S FULL ESSAY:

“Last name... O’Neill?”

“It’s Mairéad - it rhymes with parade.”

If I had a nickel for every time this conversation happened… Well, I wouldn’t be applying for scholarships right now. It’s a cycle I’ve dreaded every September since Kindergarten. The conversation usually proceeds with a follow-up question like “Is that French?” or “Could you repeat that?” or even the occasional “Oh! Do you have a nickname I could use?”

Sometimes, I’ll get something like “Wow, that’s pretty.” Perhaps my favorite response. It’s validating -- unlike the responses I get from computers that read “INVALID CHARACTERS” the second I insert the accent over the ‘e’.

I used to feel it was a nuisance to explain it all; to explain myself. I’ve spent so much time writing letters to officials begging them to pronounce my name right at ceremonies, too many awkward conversations at Starbucks spelling it out then getting my drink labeled “Merd”, long explanations of my name’s heritage (“No, it’s not French). For a while, it felt more of a burden than a point of pride; less a reminder of my heritage and more a reminder that my full name has 28 characters and people usually stop caring/listening after the fifteenth.

When I started at a new school, my little brain thought “This is it! The chance to reinvent myself, the chance to leave these conversations in the past, and start fresh!” My insecurities had outweighed the pros of having people know my name. Why would anyone care about knowing the real me? It was too much to ask for. Thus, with fierce vehemence, I declared these three nicknames would be used for me, each assigned to a different teacher:

1. “Em”, for English. Simple. Two characters, one syllable. Time saving. The sound the first letter of my name makes. No one could mess this up.

2. “Ray”, for Math. A riskier move - the sound in the middle of my name, three characters instead of two, but it had a spunk that I liked.

3. “Maggie”, for Science. The riskiest. The question-provoker. Where did it come from? It wasn’t derived from any sounds or letters in my name. The shortened version of it’s creation was that Maggie was the nickname for my grandma Margaret, who I was named after - but in the Irish-Gaelic way. Simple to spell, simple to say.

I strutted into school, ready to conduct my experiment - which nickname would be the one to stick? How would I feel without follow ups? Would my shoulders feel lighter sans the weight of defense I had to carry all day?

For a while, sure. There were significantly less moments cringing upon hearing a garbled pronunciation. No biting my lip at a corrected paper with the incorrect spelling of my name written on it. I was free from the burden of my 28 character name!

Nonetheless, guilt crept in. So much of my identity was tied into my name; I started feeling I’d erased a big part of myself. Not just myself, but my heritage. How would my Irish grandmother feel? Oh god, I had provoked the rage of my ancestors! Slowly, a sense of longing for the cringe-worthy mispronunciations appeared. With every incorrect spelling, every botched syllable, came a chance to stand up & take pride - in not just my name, but my identity. Learning a name is a sign of respect. I wanted to be respected - by others, but mostly by myself.

I rolled the experiment back. It’s scientific method was flawed -- the outcome had turned from me discovering which nickname I liked, to discovering that really, they all felt wrong. I took the time to meet with each of my teachers, re-introducing myself:

“It’s Mairéad. It rhymes with parade. Muh-rayd. It’s the gaelic version of my grandma’s name, meaning ‘pearl’ in Irish. I no longer want to go by the nickname I gave you in September.”

Mairéad O’Neill Fiorello H. LaGuardia High School New York, NY