“How many brothers and sisters do you have?”
This, being one of the first questions a child is asked in a grouping exercise on their first day at school, is one of the singular things that panicked me more than the cancellation of Humphrey Bear (I am still trying to cope with the fact that he ceases to exist but that is a different emotional issue altogether).
One straightforward question, generally followed by an even more straightforward number is a routine question asked on the first day of prep, first day of high school, and just when you think that it will never resurface, in years to come, you make a first date a last when hurling your mouth full of wine into the face of your potential hubby.
No one hesitated to answer, apart from the young boy in the back row who, evidently, had not mastered the simple art of addition in kindergarten, but who ironically ended up being top of his class in years to come.
I sat uncomfortably, crossed legged on the floor, with the souls of my light up skechers digging into my thighs and the top button of my stiff school shirt suffocating me (which made gasping for air in moments to come ever more difficult), anticipating the question to reach me. I could feel the burn in my cheeks, my heart beat slowly rising, pounding the floor with every beat and the choking becoming tighter and tighter as one by one, the question crept upon me with only one student to go. “Two”, the girl with threateningly perfect plaits (mum had only mastered a low pony at this stage) said next to me, with a look of pleasure and content, and with a sense of naïve competitiveness she looked at me, with a facial expression which I understood as a, “beat that”. What I would do to you Sarah Plaits if I saw you now…spoiler alert- it will include a pair of scissors. The teacher then looked at me, along with the rest of the class. Everything was silent. It’s as if the world’s future or at least that of the pupils in my class (who, I should add, I had known for a mere 30 minutes) depended on my answer. “Dear, did you hear the question?” the teacher asked, with patronising eyes burning a hole in my face.
How was I going to explain, what other students could say with one syllable? That my mum and dad aren’t in fact together, and that the ‘baby fairy’ had given them both children prior to me because they were bored, and then years later, they ACCIDENTALY kissed causing the simultaneous birth of me and my younger sister who, sadly took longer to grow?

My ordeal began way before this however. If the family situation wasn’t enough, there was that thing that supposedly defines me, the first intimate detail people learn, the thing that says a lot about my history and the sole thing that will stay with me for my entire life which caused/causes me more misery. My name. It is not only strange and unheard of, but has/will continue to cause me multitudes of embarrassing, awkward and confronting introductions.

At first, I didn’t understand what the big deal was with Boglarka. What is so strange about it? It was only when the mispronunciations started, the auto correction to Bulgaria or Boolarra on computers appeared, the five second pause which would precede when the role in class was being called out as the teacher counted her prayers, holding rosary beads as she attempted to read out a blatant phonetically pronounced name that I realised, I was different.
Introductions were not my main concern as a child. It wasn’t until high school when I became acquainted with the meaning of “bog”. This is when I began avoiding introductions, when I would sit around with friends trying to create new nicknames yet fail at answering to them, and when it became custom to follow introducing myself with, “Yes, you heard right so go ahead and make the joke now”.
My embittered and alienated years of irrepressible comments are largely over, and only now do I appreciate that I am able to resist negativity and harassment thrown in my direction. I am, contrary to earlier years, thankful that my parents gave me an individuality that nobody else has and people remember. I did eventually, grasp the concept of my family situation, and am grateful for how it broadens my acceptance of change and difference in a person. I am positive that I will receive comments about the supposed ‘difficulty’ of my name for the rest of my life- which is why I have made life easier for everyone and now go by Bee, as well as explaining my family tree, but if anything, it is an ace conversation starter (one up on you Sarah Plaits)!

This being said, I will continue to give out a false name to be called out, for the pure and simple reason. I cannot face the embarrassment of walking to the counter, with the same burning in my cheeks, as 12 years ago, picking up a latte for “Blargaka-ka”.