On Frappucinos and Letting My People Go While People Can't (Won't) Pronounce My Name
Image description: a picture of me holding a frappuccino. The drink label attempted to spell my name so the barista could call me to pick up my order. Instead of Pharoah, the label reads Faro.
Faro.
This is the closest a Starbucks barista has ever gotten to a phonetic spelling of my name during a recent visit to Starbucks. I can't even be mad because at least they tried. Usually, when I order food or a beverage with my name and not a pseudonym, the name on the cup looks like someone shook up a bag of Scrabble tiles, poured seven tiles onto a table, and said close enough.
I could be 100 years old, and I will still not understand how people butcher my name, especially the "Christians." Yeah, there aren't 800 dudes named Pharoah walking around every town and city, but who doesn't know of the Pharaohs in some ways, shape, or form?
These microaggressions pile up, wear you down, and make you feel like you need to assimilate or whitewash yourself to survive. Everyone should be able to order a beverage at a coffee shop and not need to use an alias because you're exhausted by the lack of effort to pronounce your name. Everyone should be able to go to work, go to an event, and traverse the world they live in without needing a "white" identity and name that white people and institutions feel "comfortable" with pronouncing. Many people think that little things like this don't matter or don't hurt, but they do. They have a resonant long-term impact on Global Majority folx that many carries with us for our entire lives.
I've been dealing with my name being mangled in every setting you can think of my entire life.
All a brother wants is an occasional cold beverage with my name spelled correctly.
I know I'm not the only one.
[Image description: a picture of me holding a frappuccino. The drink label attempted to spell my name so the barista could call me to pick up my order. Instead of Pharoah, the label reads Faro.]
