Yes, like shark

And what is this little guy’s name?

Seark.

Sean?

Nope. Seark.

Like shark?

Yup Seark like shark. It’s Irish spelt like Sean. S E A R K pronounced like shark.

Oh. (Picture blank, bewildered, or disapproving look along with that “oh”)

I cannot even begin to tell you how many times I have had that exact conversation with someone over the last 3 years. It is a name like any other. An unusual name I know. Nonetheless a real name. The way some people react you would think they asked his name and I said something crazy like “oh him, his name is cheese tits”. Which I have considered saying just to break the ice. That way when I say his name is actually Seark they will be like oh that’s cool.

After I saw the name Seark in a baby book I was sure that was the name. I loved it. My husband of course hated it. Clearly that didn’t influence my decision making. My friends, well most of them, laughed and joked about it. Mostly silly stuff like I could name my next one Nemo. My family, they know me. They knew I didn’t need them to love it or even like it. They also knew I didn’t want their opinion and they didn’t give it. They would nod and smile and look at each other with that “did you hear that?” look. At this point in life I’m totally prepared for that look. It was clear Seark was not the most popular name among my inner circle. Pretty much no one liked it. Except for my mother she loved the name too. When I say I am mother’s child no other statement could be truer. Often times it is as if we can read each other’s minds. So it was no surprise that she was on the same page.

In the hospital a woman with a name tag that boasted “SHIQUANDA” gave me papers to fill out for the birth certificate. On the day we were leaving I filled them out and handed them to her. She read over them expressionless. She sat down on the bed beside me and read back to me everything I wrote. When she got to the name she looked up and said see-ark? I said nope shark. Shiquanda took a big exacerbated breath and looked over at Seark sleeping soundly in the little plastic hospital box crib thing and said “you know what you write on here is the name that boy will have for the rest of his life…. You sure that’s the name you wanna give that beautiful baby?”  I honestly wasn’t sure whether she was fulfilling her duties as spokesperson for the strange name club that she obviously belonged to or if she was just being a bitch. Either way I didn’t waver. Shiquanda nor anybody else was going to change my mind.

The jokes among friends died down. My baby grew and as he did people that knew him and us got over his name. Still whenever I introduce him to someone for the first time I get that skeptical look and the most common question “Aren’t you afraid that kids are going to make fun of him?” or “Doesn’t it bother you that most people don’t like his name?” Of course, No, to both. I have never been one to care too much for what other people thought of me or what I do. Should the day ever come that I am so concerned with popular opinion that I let it influence the names I give the children I carried just shoot me. As for my kids, I’m not striving to raise sheep. I don’t want them to follow the heard just because it’s the easy thing to do. I hope they will be sure of who they are. Not afraid to follow what they love. I want to raise sharks. I want my children to be fiercely beautiful creatures that will swim fearlessly against the current.