It’s the French’s cheap and unoriginal name for “Jacob”. Just like “Jacob” and “James”, in Biblical terms, my name means “supplanter”. 

It means a nickname is usually preferable. Was often preferable? I don’t know. My name is just another part of me, scattered among the rest of the puzzle pieces I’m trying to put together. Unfortunately for my name, I still need to find the corner pieces.

Allegedly my parents wanted a mixture of Jacob and Marcus, which makes somewhat sense considering that I was raised with the wrong pronunciation of Jacques. 

When I was younger people would continually ask me to clarify the pronunciation of my name, and I would correct people on my name when they got it wrong, whether they pronounced it the proper French way or simply got it wrong. Eventually, I realized whenever a substitute teacher was hesitating on reading a name off for attendance, it was probably me. 

I realized the vanity of my name, it was creating more awkward inner conflict than it was worth. I stopped caring, quit correcting, and eventually segregated those who know me from those who don’t. My name became something I’d wear for different occasions or situations rather than something that’s a part of me.

Like most attire I put on, it varies on where I’m going, what I’m doing, and who I’m meeting or talking to. If I’m meeting someone for the first time I’ll tell them my nickname. If it’s someone I’ve been close with they’ll call me by my birth name. If I’m in French class, it’s my name with the proper pronunciation. If it’s in Spanish class it somehow goes from ‘Jake’ to ‘Jack’. If I’m applying for a job I’ll formally give them my legal birth name. 

Jake. One short, four-letter syllable. As interesting as a plank of Oakwood. I’ve known for a while how boring and uninspired my nickname is. And while I understand my life isn’t uber-exciting or interesting, I refuse to think that it’s nearly as drab as “Jake”. 

Recently, while I have been going by “Jake”, I have warmed up to the French pronunciation of Jacques. I think Jacques, with its awkward, subjectively cute spelling, potentially fits me better than my bland, simple nickname.

While Jacques is also one syllable with the French pronunciation, the letters involved and the spelling manage to remind me of a quaint, swirly color, made by a nine-year-old me while engrossed by an old, 2009, blue and clear plastic Crayola crayon maker. It reminds me of the vascular system of a tree revealed by lightning. Jacques reminds me of all that’s interesting about me, which isn’t saying much, but it’s much better than being reminded of the mundanity. 

While reading Leopold, I came across a message that spoke to me: we as people do not care about what we do not know. For that, I struggle to stick to one name which is me. From what I know Jacques is my childhood and awkwardness. Jake is my insecurity and attempts to fit in with a normal name. Jacques is the ambitious, overshadowed part of me that is determined to show itself one day but never does. I am not my name. My name is me.