Appalachia Year

I have an uncommon name and an even less common nickname. In all the years of telling substitute teachers how to pronounce Evie, having absurd variations scrawled on my coffee cups by well-meaning baristas, and being the only Evie in my loved ones' lives, I can't help but feel that part of my identity is wrapped up in my old lady name. Who knows how I would have turned out if my parents decided twenty two years ago that I seemed like more of a Brittany.

So whenever I encounter other Evelyns, and on the rare occasion, other Evies, it's unsettling. A poem called "Beware of Things in Duplicate" by Dana Gioia comes to mind:

Beware of things in duplicate:
a set of knives, the cufflink in a drawer,
the dice, the pair of Queens, the eyes
of someone sitting next to you:
Attend that empty minute in the evening
when looking at the clock, you see
its hand are fixed on the same hour
you noticed at your morning coffee.
These are the moments to beware
when there is nothing so familiar
or so close that cannot betray you:
a twin, an extra key, an echo,
your own reflection in the glass.

How can I possibly trust someone who knows what it is to be named Evie? We shouldn't be in a room together. Being Evie should be nobody's business but mine.

I waited on a girl tonight whose name was Evie. She was about ten, her brand new adult teeth much too big for her head, her confidence and comedic timing impressive for someone so young. Instead of feeling threatened by her, I was excited for her. I wanted to tell her, it's gonna be so great! You're gonna fall in love, and see the French countryside from train windows, and ride your bike through the city in dresses and heels, and break into swimming pools in the summer, and never sleep, and always sleep, and have your heart broken by every stupid, little thing in the world.

And it made me feel like maybe I like being myself, and being alive, and all the bullshit that comes with it.