My mom named me after a little girl she used to babysit as a teenager. I’m not really Irish, so Makenzie isn’t a cultural name. It’s also not spelt “correctly.” She didn’t want anyone to call me “Mac,” but they still found a way. I was Kenzie growing up, Kenzie Baby and now Makenzie Jeanne.
I was one of those kids growing up that couldn’t find their name on a gift shop keychain. Well, I could, but it always had a “c” in it. So, since I’ve been able to spell my name, I’ve hated who I believe to be my evil twin: Mackenzie. I’m glad my name has no “c,” but I feel like I’ve been correcting people for as long as I can remember.
As a child I would get annoyed if my name was misspelled on the Valentine’s Day cards that we gave out in class. I’ll never forget a classmate spelling my name “McKensie.” Especially considering that the girl’s mom was literally my teacher at the time, which meant she probably didn’t know how to spell my name either.
Your name is such a big part of your identity that having it misspelled is like having someone perceive you in a way that you vehemently disagree with. Mackenzie isn’t me. I’m not Mac. I’m not “Big Mac.” I’m not Mackie. I am Makenzie. Just Makenzie. The only people who can call me Kenzie are my family members.
No one gets it right the first time. I’ve been correcting and spelling it out my whole life. I’m sick of it, honestly.
But you know what really drives me crazy? When I address and sign off on an email with the correct spelling of my name and then a Dean, a professor with their PhD, a potential employer or someone who’s known me for years refers to my evil twin.
Reading an email that opens with “Mackenzie” makes me want to smash my laptop with a hammer, rip my hair out strand by strand and fall off the face of the Earth. Dramatic, I know. But truly, it shows a blatant lack of attention to detail and a lack of respect. If you have a name like John or Emily, I don’t expect you to understand. But if you have a name that’s even more complicated than mine, I feel for you.
It’s honestly hurtful when you’ve known someone for years and they still misspell your name. I know that autocorrect exists, accidents happen, we have a million things going on, but I’ve even had family members misspell my name.
One time when I was working at Stop & Shop (a truly interesting summer job), I had a customer look at my nametag and say “That’s my daughter’s name! Same spelling!” We instantly bonded. Her young daughter and I shared nicknames (both of us using Kenzie) and then laughed about how often our name is misspelled.
She looked to be about eight. I wanted to lean down and whisper to her, “Change your name now. You’re going to have gray hair by the time you’re 20. Save yourself while you still can.” But of course, I didn’t, at the risk of looking like a psychopath.
And then I got a message from my childhood babysitter. She told me she was having her second daughter, and asked for my blessing to name her Makenzie, just like my mom did with the little girl she babysat. I cried.
I am so closely connected with my name. My name is my everything. Everyone says, “I can’t picture you with any other name. You’re such a Makenzie.” I know that. I’ve known that since I could even conceptualize my own name.
I said “Of course, I’m so flattered!” Then I was able to meet her when she was born. I said to her mom, “I hope you’re prepared for a lifetime of correcting people and frustration.” And she said, “It’s already started.”
