I have always had an interesting relationship with my last name. As a young kid, most nicknames were directed toward my first name (“Wheat Thin” is still a personal favorite of mine). As time went on, people occasionally called me by my last name, “Poole,” or intentionally misnamed me as “Poolie,” but I was still mostly called “Ethan” by everyone except for my middle school band and history teachers until my sophomore year of high school.

In the spring of that year, with COVID-19 restrictions finally starting to ease up, I started a band with a few friends, and I joined my high school’s junior varsity baseball team. In both of these environments, my last name was almost exclusively what I was referred to as – partially because both groups had people who shared my first name, but mostly because on the baseball team, everyone got the last-name treatment. 

The issues didn’t start until my junior year, when my band – and all of my relationships within it – imploded spectacularly. I had been stabbed in the back by four of my closest friends. They spread rumors about me, and every time we talked to each other ended in an explosive argument. All of this with them still calling me “Poole.” 

The baseball team was just as bad; I was the team manager for my last two years and the bullying was relentless. They’d belittle me, all while saying the name “Poole.” 

All of this was incredibly damaging to me; I dreaded going to school because I knew I’d have to face all of those people for another day. Eventually, I grew to hate hearing my name, even from close friends and family. Every time I heard “Poole,” especially if someone was calling me by that name only, I wanted to crawl into a shell. It brought me back to everything I was going through. This extended well after high school and into my freshman year at Hofstra University.

I became very involved in school’s activities during my freshman year. I not only joined The Hofstra Chronicle, but also became involved with WRHU and the HEAT Network. Nearly everyone I met called me by my last name. At first, every time I was called “Poole” I was right back at baseball practice or at band rehearsal being berated or terrorized with that name. 

However, things started to change around my second semester. I began to realize that people were saying my name with joy when I walked into a room instead of mocking me with it. It was still a long process to become comfortable with hearing my last name consistently again. Eventually I was able to not only associate it with happy memories, but to reconnect with my last name and not see it as a vehicle for my torment.

I owe much of this to the incredible people I’ve met on this campus; many of them don’t know how much their simple kindness and friendliness has helped me heal and feel whole again. Without them, I’d almost certainly still feel distant toward an incredibly important part of my identity.