“Your name’s Sebastian, too?”
It was the ninth time I’d heard that phrase the entire day, and only about the seventeen thousandth time I had heard it. With endless responses floating above my head, I chose one randomly. “Oh, really? I didn’t know that,” I responded unenthusiastically.
I always tend to believe that my name was forever unique to me, however, having friends with the same name and countless encounters made me seem more generic to others and myself.
From a young age, I’ve always held a name that I considered way too ordinary.
Growing up in a Hispanic community, my name has been said countless times and owned by many. The variety of encounters of people and teachers who had my name, or knew someone else who had the same name made everything a bit more confusing.
Innumerable replies ensued: “Yea, we have the same name,” “That’s so cool,” “It's common.” Those were the few responses I had prepared after endless remarks on one of the most common names in my community.
The most irritating part was when other people would yell out “Sebastian,” and I would turn my attention and find out they weren’t talking to/about me. Now, I don’t even bear to act. Embarrassment usually came with my name and I had learned to own up to it.
Sometimes, when being the same as the rest of the crowd, it becomes super overwhelming and the rejection allows you to understand, you are the same as everyone else. Over time, I had always wondered what went through my parents’ heads when naming me. But the only answer was really to match with my twin brother’s name, Christian.
I had multiple identities growing up. There was “twin”, the person who was overseen by his name. He was always confused about who they referred to. When people ask what my name was, I would say Sebastian. Still, people would continue to say Christian which was actually my brother’s name. People who I’ve known for years still get me mixed up. Being an identical twin, my identity and name were never viewed, but compared.
The next was Sebas. My dad always considered naming me Sebas, but it was because my father always used “Sebas” in his passwords, he figured it was the best way to remember. Inspired by his anecdotes, I continued to own up to the nickname. This one was tough because others also called other Sebastian(s) ‘Sebas,’ and I was still confused.
Lastly, was the name Skips. The name was pinned on my mental wall for as long as I could remember. My goldfish was named Skips, my Xbox gamertag was Skips, and my Snapchat username was also Skips. This name had no special meaning, except for my belief that it was cool, since it was related to Regular Show. If asked why my name was “Skips,” I wouldn’t have to go into my bag of responses, because it would be non-existent.
Gradually, I grew out of hating my true name. Having a name doesn’t define who you are, but what you do defines your name to yourself. Even though my name reached peak popularity, it gives the chance to initiate conversations. From small talk at school to deep discussions about life and friends at church. Many translations of my name seemed initially meaningless to me; the ability to understand that I am special, has helped me embrace the Latin meaning of my name.
Now, I have forever been unapologetically calling myself by the name I was proudly given, Sebastian.