I don’t think I’m a very good “Lauren.” I’ve been told on multiple occasions that I don’t look like one (whatever that means), and nothing about the name has ever really stuck with me. The definition, for example, “victory of wisdom,” has always confused me because I’ve never been wise in any shape or form. Sure, I’ve been called smart before by elementary school teachers and a few peers, but wise? As in having knowledge beyond my age? Being experienced and not jumping to conclusions or having sound judgement? That doesn’t sound like me at all. My mom is wise. She’s perceptive and down-to-earth in every way imaginable, so it never made sense why she chose such an unfitting name for me.
My mom has always been headstrong, especially when it came to my brother and me. She won full custody easily when our family broke apart, and when I was born, she rejected my dad’s suggestion of “Jaycie” and settled on the name “Lauren” instead. “It’s a beautiful name,” she always told me, and the meaning was a nice addition but ultimately held no weight. She had known from the very beginning that her children would be their ridiculous selves no matter what their names suggested.
So, in the end, I was given a common, boring name. Another “Lauren” in a sea of sweet grandmas and elementary school teachers. I used to wish my name was spelled differently. Anything that’d give me an edge in standing out, because although my first name is decently common, my last name is even worse. The name “Yoshida” is decently rare in America, but when put in its country of origin, Japan? All of a sudden everyone has the last name “Yoshida,” to the point where there’s even a sauce brand under the same name. Lauren Yoshida: just another name among billions. No grand story or hidden meaning, just another name to be heard and then forgotten.
Contrary to those thoughts, I’ve always loved my initials. LY: love you, like a small, subtle, hidden love letter to the world. It fits because I have always loved, loved, loved people for every tiny, kind action. I love you for making me laugh with your stupid jokes, and I love you for making that one meal I really like when I’m sad, and I love you for bringing me home brownies from your work dinners. I love you for remembering me, because to be loved is to be known, and I am lucky enough to have never gone a single day without that kind of love. It’s the kind of love I reciprocate in letters written and drawings signed, where my initials will always be at the bottom, LY: love you.
Unfortunately, people don’t tend to go around calling people by their initials, which is probably why I’ve always wanted a nickname. Every nickname has a reason, and you can’t get one out of the blue. Oftentimes, it’s because the original name is too long, but there’s not a lot of ways to slice up the name “Lauren” (another reason why I’m apathetic about it). Personally, I always wanted the kind of nickname bred from familiarity or some crazy story. Recently, I was actually given one that encapsulates both. So, what new title was I honored with, you may ask?
It’s La-len. My family calls me La-len. My ama was born in Cambodia, and although she speaks tons of different languages, she never quite managed to nail her ‘r’s. As such, I have been called La-len by her my entire life. “La-len, look there’s this new dessert place that opened,” and “La-len, did you eat yet? Do you want me to cut up pear for you?” and my personal favorite, “La-len let’s go eat hot pot! Send a picture to your mom.” While the unintentional nickname has been flying under the radar for years, now that I visit her every weekend, my other relatives have started picking up on it too. Now I get a “La-len, you want snack?” from my uncle every so often. It makes me like my name, actually, because now my name brings laughter. It’s an inside joke only made for me, the version of myself who exists across universes upon universes where my mom decided to name me Lauren. It’s also a constant reminder of my ama, who I know won’t be with me for the rest of my life, as much as I hate to think about it.
So, I guess I’ll never make a good “Lauren,” and in case you were wondering, I don’t make a very good “Yoshida” either, for which the meaning is “lucky rice field.” I am occasionally lucky, but unfortunately, not a rice field. Fortunately, my incredibly wise mother has always told me that “labels don’t define you,” so maybe it’s okay to ignore the label she placed on me herself. I’ve always been more of a La-len anyways (whatever that means).