But that’s not my real name

     At the sound of “Miss” (sounding more like meese) or “Teacher”, I turn, glancing in the direction I believe the voice came from.  It may be in the language center, on one of the city’s main streets or in a more residential neighborhood, but more than likely someone is trying to get my attention.  Between last year and this year, I’ve had contact with over 1000 students from the Chiclayo area as well as numerous teachers and parents of students.  I don’t remember many of their names, but I often recognize their faces.  Just the other day, walking to catch a Combi home, I turned and my eyes met those of a curly skinny, haired, teenage girl.  She excitedly began to babble about her experiences at the university, La Pedro (where I worked last year as part of my Fulbright ETA Fellowship), about how she’s now in her 3^rd semester of English language studies and how she hasn’t seen me there for some times.  Well, she’s correct; I haven’t been there since the end of December.  She asked me if I remembered her, and I was forced to confess that I’d forgotten her name.  She smiled and went on gabbing, and I considered that she likely didn’t know my name either.  After all, “Teacher” isn’t my real name. 

     Having a name like Aprill is great sometimes.  It’s normal in English with a slightly unique spelling.  It’s easily translated when I travel, but then that can also cause challenges.  Most of the people I meet, can’t seem to say “Aprill” but rather “Apo” or something along that strain.  So, it’s usually easier to introduce myself to new people as “Abril” (a name that while not common in Spanish, does exist).  There’s no problem until I write my name on something, and I suddenly hear someone exclaim, “But you’ve deceived me!  You told me your name was “Abril” but it’s “Ah-prij.”  Then I have some explaining to do. 

     When it comes to filling out official paperwork like documents for my foreigner’s card, changing documents with which my bank accounts are registered and the like, I don’t have two last names like Peruvians do.  I fill out the forms, leaving the part reading “maternal last name” blank and hand them over.  From the other side of the desk or counter, I receive a quizzical look and then hear, “And your other last name.”  I then launch into the all too familiar explanation that since my nationality is U.S. American, I do not have two last names, which then usually creates some sort of complication.  Some have wanted to add “Hoffman” to my documents, but then that’s not my real name.  If I do decide to apply for Peruvian citizenship in 2 years, then I may have to add that and have a new name, but for now, my entire name consists of 16 letters: six, four, six.  A nice length.  I like it that way.  I may answer to many different names, but only one is the true version.