“Na-yah. Did I say that right?”

“What’s your name?” “Nyah.” “Maya?” “N-eye-ah.” As if being quiet doesn’t already make it hard for others to understand my name, it’s also unusual. My name is a conversation starter all on its own. “Oh, what a pretty name”, “Where does that name come from?”, “How do you spell it?” “There must be some story behind your name,” someone once asked me. “No, not really, my mom just liked it.” “Well, next time I see you, I would like to hear your story. Maybe there are Eskimos and Igloos. Maybe you’re a spy or a ninja. You need a story for a name like Nyah.” My real story may not involve such extravagant characters, but it’s me. It’s creative and unique, artsy and quite messy, and even if it doesn’t sound weird, it is definitely weird. It’s rare that I ever hear my name for someone else. But that’s why I love it. It’s unique and distinctively me. My name is a blank canvas. I can be anything I want to be before people jump to conclusions. If I had a name like Sarah, people would think of me as another Sarah they knew before they even met me. If my name was Chanel, I must love fashion. As much as that is true, I really do love fashion; I want my name to stand on its own. I want to create my own story without my name creating a separate impression, even if I have to repeat it a few times.