You ever notice how the first day of school feels like the opening scene of a courtroom drama?

The teacher walks in with the roster, everyone’s watching, and the tension is thick.

And it’s all fun and games until they pause.

Squint.

Tilt their head.

Take a long sip of coffee like it’ll give them phonetic superpowers…

And then—butchery.

For me, it was seventh grade. First period. Mrs. George.

Now, Mrs. George had made it through most of the list just fine.

Then she got to me.

She looked at the paper.

Looked up.

Looked around—as if the name might be hiding in the corner.

Then she took her shot:

“Marciano… Veliz?”

I blinked.

She doubled down, said it slower, like that would help:

“Marciano. Veliz?”

Still nothing.

Then, from somewhere behind me, came the voice of a lifelong tormentor:

“No, teacher—it’s Martian Suitcase.”

Cue the laughter.

Cue the inner collapse.

Trágame tierra. Just bury me with my backpack and my Spalding binder.

And that? That nickname stuck for the rest of the year.

Eighth grade, I thought I’d be free.

New year, new me.

Nope.

Same teacher.

Same period.

Same exact wreck.

High school? You’d think it would get better.

But I went through four years of being called Moe, Marcelo, Max…

One teacher even went with Mauricio.

Didn’t even try. I don’t think he could’ve pronounced my name if it was tattooed on his forearm next to a QR code.

And then—graduation.

Dios mío.

There you are: cap, gown, your whole family in the bleachers screaming your name like you’re walking into a prizefight.

The moment of pride.

The moment of legacy.

The moment where your name—your name!—is supposed to be called out for the world to hear.

And instead?

It gets “touched up.”

Suddenly I’m “Mark-seen Vallice.”

Like a discontinued cologne or an IKEA cabinet.

You smile.

You shake hands.

You pose for the photo.

But deep down, you’re thinking:

They still didn’t get it right.

Now—don’t get me wrong.

I’ve got nothing but love for teachers.

I am one. Was one.

And let me tell you, no amount of training, phonemic awareness, or caffeine can prepare you for what’s waiting on a classroom roster.

Sometimes it’s like decoding a Wi-Fi password.

Other times it’s like someone let a cat walk across the keyboard and said, “Yep. That’s the one.”

And parents? Look—I respect the creativity. I do.

Some names carry deep cultural roots.

I’ve had students named after Mesoamerican deities—Cuauhtémoc. Tláloc. Xōchiquetzal.

Powerful names.

Names with weight.

Names that deserve reverence and effort.

And then… there are the others.

Names that came with quotation marks on the birth certificate.

Nicknames that somehow became legal names, because apparently the nurse just shrugged and said, “Sure. Let chaos reign.”

I remember this one kid—bless him—whose actual, government-issued name was Travieso.

Not a nickname.

Not a vibe.

Not “his friends call him that.”

No.

His parents named him that.

(And just to make it even better—his mom was a correctional officer and his dad was Border Patrol.)

Make it make sense.

And he lived up to it.

With pride.

This kid had the energy of a raccoon in a Red Bull factory.

He once put a live lizard in my coffee mug and looked at me like he was doing me a favor.

Like, “You’re welcome, sir. It’s organic.”

Travieso was not a name.

It was a forecast.

And somehow, I loved him for it.

So yeah.

I get it now.

I’ve been the mispronounced and the mispronouncer.

The confused kid and the flustered teacher.

And here’s what I’ve learned:

Names are complicated.

They’re culture.

They’re memory.

They’re family.

They’re sometimes a warning label, sometimes a punchline, sometimes a prayer.

And whether you’re on the giving end of the pause or the receiving end of the “Did I say that right?”…

Just try.

Put in the effort.

Ask.

Learn.

Don’t rename someone because it’s easier for you.

Because names matter.

Even the weird ones.

Even the ones that sound like sci-fi luggage.

Even the ones that are trouble.

Especially those.

Because behind every name—no matter how many vowels, accents, or unexpected silent letters—is a human being who just wants to be seen, heard, and maybe, just maybe, called by the name they came in with.

(Or not. Some will volunteer a preferred moniker.)

So what’s in a name?

Apparently…

Comedy.

Trauma.

Legacy.

And, if you’re lucky…

One very mischievous kid named Travieso.

Thank you and goodnight.

Enjoy this one? You might just be one of us. There’s more waiting at Inkblotz—stories and reflections that feel like remembering something you forgot you knew.