We all carry several names over the course of our lives—some are heavier burdens than others, but we say and hear our own names so frequently that they become inextricably linked with our identities (for better or worse). Every time I walk through cemeteries, I think that they are perfect places to brainstorm baby names. I’m pretty certain I won’t be giving birth to biological children, but I’ve always thought that naming anything is a huge responsibility—and I have several names picked out, just in case.

When I was born on August 31, 1985, my parents named me like they were Dickens getting paid by the letter: Alexandra Catherine Charitan. My middle name came from my mother’s grandmother, and I like to think my Eastern European ancestors reached through time to influence the Russian-royalty-inspired “Alexandra.” Although it was her idea, my mom says that when she looked at such a tiny baby, she found it impossible to call me “Alexandra.” She opted instead for “Allie,” with the hope that I would grow into my full name, eventually.

And maybe one day I will be the type of woman who refuses to make things easier or provide shortcuts for others at my own expense. I’m getting better at carving out a space for myself. Say all four syllables, I dare you. But I’m nearly 36 years old, and almost everyone who interacts with me in real life still calls me “Allie,” including both of my parents. It’s how I introduce myself, it’s the name that I give to baristas, and how I sign most of my thank you cards. I’ve made some progress: “Alexandra” is the name I use in all work communications, and the name I give when paying bar tabs and bail money. If I really think you know me, you might just get cards signed with a simple “A.” The more you know, the less I figure I have to say.

Despite my pack rat nature, I have very few mementos left from my actual childhood. My box of Beanie Babies moldered in my dad’s garage and mice chewed through my oversized, junior high t-shirts I stored in his attic in case the ‘90s came back (they did, unfortunately). When I was really young, my great uncle gave me a personalized cassette tape with songs about “Alexandras.” I don’t remember the specific lyrics—and I have no way to play the tape now—but it felt special enough to keep in a waterproof bin with my other “important” documents and mementos, including my birth certificate, photo booth strips, souvenir squished penny books, and COVID-19 vaccination card. The official documents all say “Alexandra,” but the people who squish pennies and crowd into photo booths with me call me “Allie.” Which one is the real me? Depends on who you ask, and when.

As an extremely shy and nerdy introverted kid, I both loved and hated the first day of school for many reasons. Introductions and first impressions are important; we don’t usually get many first chances. There’s a small window to inform teachers and anyone else I meet that, “Yes, I am Alexandra, and you may call me that—but, oh, I also go by Allie.” There were classes in college or entire jobs to which I felt so little attachment that I passively pushed back when someone would arbitrarily assign me a nickname. Emails addressed to “Alex,” “Ally,” or even “Allie,” were returned, signed stubbornly, Alexandra.

Names, and the problems and frustrations they can create, are as varied as the people who have them. But my personal pet peeves of living a life of two names come not from the two names I have, but from the several others given to me in error, or on purpose. I had a particularly clueless gym teacher in elementary school who called me “Alexandria” no matter how many times I corrected him. One “i” might not seem like much, but names have power; whether or not I had control over its creation, I’ve always felt the need to maintain tight control of mine.

As far as the internet and the government are concerned, I am Alexandra. So why do my “real” friends call me Allie? Is it for the same reason that my mom did initially? The more you get to know me, the more I must begin to resemble that tiny baby born in the summer of ‘85: Still cautiously unsure, but immensely curious about the world; navigating a name with more letters than a full Scrabble rack, but one that is mutable and unintentionally gender fluid. I’ve often felt grateful to possess a name that is rare enough to feel special, but still common enough to pop up in a display of personalized souvenir license plates. I still think that having an “x” in my full name is just objectively cool. It’s fun every time I sign a check, although I worry that my inconsistent signature will expose me as a fraud. Is it still considered “imposter syndrome” if the person you feel like you’re failing to live up to is also you?

Having several identities can sometimes complicate matters: some forms don’t have enough boxes to accommodate my full name, signing into anything on AppleTV with my email address takes way too long, and when we went to the Ocean City, Maryland boardwalk, as a kid I wondered: “Would my name actually fit on a grain of rice?” But sometimes it’s also practical to have two names and even kind of fun. I tag in “Alexandra” for the business in the front, and “Allie” for the party in the back—it’s the in-betweens that are always tricky, but I’m trying to practice patience with myself, and others, as I go through them.

For years people have been calling me Alex, both in virtual and real life encounters. Sometimes I tell them, “Actually, I go by Allie,” and other times I don’t. I’m not even sure if it’s always a conscious decision, but even as I correct them, I sometimes wish that my parents had chosen to call me “Alex” instead. I’m in no hurry to consolidate my identities or declare an entirely new one—but maybe I’ll start mixing them up more just because I can. I have no interest in ditching the miniature “Alexandra” souvenir license plate I bought on my solo honeymoon in the Poconos—but I also seriously considered buying the “Alex” one as well, if just to see how it felt to be someone else for a moment.

I still think of myself primarily as “Allie,” but I’m gaining on “Alexandra.” Maybe “Alex” is next, or maybe she has been there from the very beginning, swirling around in the alphabet soup into which my mother thrust her spoon and pulled out an A, L, L, I, and E. We may not have much choice in how things start out, but, if we’re lucky, somewhere along the line we get opportunities to direct where they are going. We are a mix of both the identities we give ourselves, and the ones that are thrust upon us by others. “Allie” was given to me, and I’m not sure I’ve fully earned “Alexandra” yet—but “Alex” could be whatever I want her to be, and blank slates are seductive.

So, if we ever meet in real life (or we’re already old friends), you have my permission to call me Allie, Alexandra, or Alex. My current pronouns are she/her, and “they” is totally fine too—lately I’ve been identifying as “a dad on vacation” (minus the pesky kids). But it’s all subject to change, so just pay attention and follow my lead; I promise I’ll try to do the same for you.

Nothing stays the same forever, but many decades from now—when I die a Collyer-brothers-style death trapped under a pile of my hoarded newspapers—official documents will most likely still bear the name with which I entered the world. Those 26 letters I’ve been given may never be able to say it all, but they try their best. I understand now that names are not immovable objects; they can evolve and ultimately add up to more than the sum of their parts—just like the people to which they belong.

Call me by my name