The following is a previously published article I wrote for my youth newsletter.On a crisp morning in November, I strolled into the warmth of a popular Starbucks Coffee House. The aroma of espresso and the whirring of steamed milk fueled my senses. An array of customers swarmed every square inch of the small shop. Some were in business suits; others were squeezed into spandex, obviously concluding their morning exercise with caffeine. A few were even in crumpled pajamas, barely awake enough to say latte. Over the hum of voices, rustling papers, and noisy machines, a recurring chime sounded every few seconds when a new customer’s name was announced. Your wait is over; you may go now.
After I placed my order, the wide-eyed girl in the green apron asked for my name, and I thought, “That’s a little personal, don’t ya think...I don’t know you, you don’t know me.” I thought about giving an alias, but there’s that split-second you have to answer and my brain froze. If I had said Roger or Fernando, she would have known. So I said Eli, to which most people say “what” or “how do you spell that?” And I sat down and waited for my name.
Army man was first to be called and quickly marched out. To my relief, the blond lady wearing too much perfume was summoned next. And then it happened...tall vanilla latte for Eli. A rush filled my body like when you are called on by your teacher in school to give an answer in front of the entire class. I rose to get my drink, feeling their eyes staring at me and people thinking, “So, his name is Eli, huh?” I hurried to the tall counter to get my drink, and without making eye contact, I returned to my seat.
I felt somewhat exposed even though most people were likely oblivious to my name since they only listen for the first syllable of their own. Still, I felt that Starbucks Inc. now possessed a portion of my identity, and that a small piece of me was revealed to all those strangers. Though my name is only the beginning of who I am, it also seems to be the symbol by which others understand me. Is my name so insignificant that it can be easily shouted and labeled on a coffee cup without regard to who I really am? Juliet may long for the day when names do not represent the history nor insides of human-kind, but names often reveal more details than you wish...and though I may smell similar, would I really be the same Eli if my name were not Eli?
O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name, or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I'll no longer be a Capulet...'Tis but thy name that is my enemy...What's Montague? It is not hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man. What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet. --Romeo and Juliet, II:2
