what's in a name?

              My parents are interesting. If you've ever met me, you would know that I had to be raised by lunatics. They aren't conventionally crazy, but more like black sitcom crazy. When I was born my mother wanted to name me Stephanie (among other things, don't even get me started on my middle name) but my father refused. He didn't want people calling me Fanny or some other hideous nickname. So they settled on Stephane. It's of French origin and is the equivalent of Steven in the states.  Apparently the name comes from the Bible. Stephane was a believer that got stoned to death for proclaiming his beliefs. Again, my parents are crazy.
      Growing up, no one in my family ever called me Stephane; they all called me by my nickname (which I won't disclose here). But when school started and  my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Weitz, pronounced my name Stephanie, I had no idea how to correct her. By that point, I had barely heard my government name said aloud and because my parents were immigrants, I assumed that that's how you say Stephane in English. So from kindergarten to high school, I was always known as Stephanie. It never really bothered me and most people called me Steph anyways.
    But the summer before college, I decided I wasn't going to let other people dictate my identity. A name is an important characteristic of one's self. A Veronica will never act like an Annie. A Cynthia is treated differently than a Melissa. People act like their names. Think about it. If someone behaves differently than their name, they always develop a nickname that suits them better. I always knew that I was living a lie as a Stephanie because deep down I was definitely a Stephane.
     Unfortunately New York University didn't feel the same way and changed my name on the school roster to Stephanie. Now maybe they assumed I made a spelling mistake on my application, but then why would you accept a student that couldn't even spell their own name? One word: Diversity. Even the SATs give you 200 bonus points just for getting your alias correct.
     So throughout college, I had to correct every professor who pronounced my name Stephanie, further simplifying the stereotype of the "black girl with an attitude". You should have seen it. I would go "Actually it's pronounced Stephane". The professor would reply "Oh it's spelled Stephanie on the roster" and I would have to say "Yeah well NYU spelled my name wrong. I know how my name is pronounced". Usually I would add a head roll and finger snaps just for emphasis sake. Classy.
       Usually I never had a problem with my name, but having a boy's name can be tricky at times. I get a lot of call backs for interviews because people assume I'm a guy. Plus it's a good icebreaker when meeting someone new for the first time. Yet there have also been times when it's done more harm than good. Like when I studied abroad in Paris. When I met with my homestay family for the first time and she asked my name. After I said "Stephane" in my faux-Parisian accent, she turned to her daughter in horror and I realized I committed a faux-pas. She begged me to tell her that my name was actually Stephanie, but after I spelled it out for her, she resigned to accept her fate. Turns out her ex-boyfriend's name was also Stephane and he was a complete and utter douchebag. So having me in the house everyday became a constant reminder of her heart being ripped out. Don't worry, me and my surrogate mother are besties now, but that first week was a little rough.
      Another strange example of how my name has affected people happened just last week. I was in the laundromat with my mother at the buttcrack of dawn and this man came up to me to tell me how beautiful I am. I don't want you to think I'm being cocky. People that roam the laundromat and have no laundry are clinically insane. Especially the ones that do it before 9am. He kept pestering me for my name and I wouldn't tell him. After five minutes of this and realizing he was one of those persistent types (my least favorite of the male hookup species. After that is the guys who compliment you and then after recognizing your dismissal proceed to let you know they weren't interested in you. "You wuz mad ugly anywayz" Really? Then why are you hitting on me? But I digress) I let him know my moniker. You should have seen his reaction. His body got tense and one of his eyes started to bulge. It was like he was turning into the Incredible Hulk, but the hood version. I asked him if he was okay and he started to stammer out nonsensical garbage. "Are you....I can't believe this...I can't...there's no real nice way...Oh my gosh...Really though?..." I couldn't make out what he was trying to ask me and I asked him if he needed help.
         Finally he blurts out in a quiet whisper "Are you a woman?"
"What do you mean?"
Clearly frustrated he responds "Were you born a woman?"
"Huh?"
"ARE YOU A TRANNY?" He yelled.
Seeing that I was trying his patience, I finally let him know that I was indeed born a woman and that there was no sausage in my pants. He seemed relieved and let me know that he "had been caught before" and that the "prettiest ones be the trannies". The most incredible part of this story is that after my admission, he proceeded to still get my number. After I laughed him off and told him I'm not interested, he informed me that I shouldn't be offended by his comments because I'm not a tranny. Good to know. Ladies if a man suggests that you're a transgender and you actually aren't, then you shouldn't be appalled. He's just investigating before he ends up on a Maury episode. I should inform you that during this whole ordeal, my mother was standing right next to me, laughing hysterically and looking like a crazy person. Only I know that she named me Stephane so she could enjoy moments like that.

cause my alma mater hates me...

this is what i saw when I turned on my computer. Basically NYU wants to reinforce that I'm part of the 10% that isn't going anywhere. To quote Collin "Sampling error!". Let's hope so. This ten year class reunion is vastly approaching.

those first few seconds...

       I have a great arsenal of friends in my life and I cherish them deeply. However I think its important to note that for the most part I didn't like any of them immeadiately. I'm a bitch and so are most of my friends. This doesn't mean we go out of our ways to be mean to people, but we don't deal with the falsehoods people constantly evoke. We live in the honest. That means that I'd rather have you hate me about something I was truthful about than to feel your wrath about a lie. That's just how we roll. But this tough exterior matched with a no nosense nonchalance is a bit abrasive at first glance.
          Take for instance 2 of my besties, Jemima and Naimah. We're the closest of friends and I consider them ride or die, but whenwe first met, they were downright cold. We were in the same afterschool program in the 7th grade and on the first day, I came an hour late. I waltzed in with my handbag that didn't contain books or writing materials and sat my ass down. I made it just in time for math class--one of my favorite subject. In order to make up for my extreme lateness, I started to answer every question. Well apparently prior to my arrival, both Jemima and Naimah were the brains of the class and they didn't like the new bitch encroaching on their territory. So like they do in the animal kingdom, they began to attack. Now how do girls attack? With their minds. Jemima and Naimah rotated their chairs so that instead of facing the blackboard their chairs now faced me on the opposite side of the room. For the remainder of the class they mean mugged me and everyone felt it. This continued on for a week until our teacher, Mr. Boulis, made us join the same group. Turns out we had a lot in common and we have been friends ever since.
     For most of my friends I have a similar story--extreme dislike at first followed by extreme love later. I thought that we were all just a product of our environment. We all grew in Brooklyn and NYC is the place where the weak are eaten first. However, when I studied abroad, I learned that bitchiness is a global trait.
    My paris amis are all people whom I never thought I would be friends with. I didn't want to be associated with any of them. Mitchell I hated because during the orientation months prior, he kept asking stupid questions and wore a really pink shirt. I made a mental note not to be anywhere near him when I landed in Paris. Loni was my roommate when I first arrived and gave me a bad taste in my mouth. I had heard wondeful things about Josephine but when I met her she barely said hi and tried as hard as possible to leave the breakfast table. Bitch. Joy had a mean face on and looked like she was already bored of everything. All of these people annoyed the shit out of me by the end of the second day in Paris and its more than 2 years later and I still consider them my best friends. Its funny how you never know where your life will take you.
     So I guess my point ( if I have one) is how much importance we give first impressions. I based entire relationships on a cursory glance and it seemed that I was wrong most of the time. Yet it doesn't seem that I don't still judge people by their book covers. They say how you dress and act are a representation of who you are and I believe that's true. But what if I misunderstand what you're representing. I look at your all black ensemble and I think that you're a melodramatic goth when really you're a chic new yorker or a beatnik. How much work does it take to get past the facade and get to the meat of the matter? Probably a five minute conversation. Definitely less than the length of a train ride, yet we never invest. It makes me kinda sad to think there are countless people who would enrich my life but I'll never find out because of a faulty first impression. Especially when I have friends I wouldn't change for the world.