Micro-Aggressive | Chapter I: Foreign at Home

It was 8:10am when I walked into the DMV office. I waited for an irritatingly long while because the guy in front of me took his sweet time talking about how he didn’t like retirement and random drivel about his wife. No one asked. He was just one of those people.

My turn. I went up to the counter and said, “Good morning. I’d like to register my vehicle.” I gave her the paper that I hadn’t even looked at, aside from reading the first line or so that told me to register soon. She looked over it and got The Look. I groaned inwardly.

“How do you say… your last name?”

“Bayrak.” [Bye-rock; if I’m feeling lazy I go with Bay-rack because talking to strangers about my name for the past two decades has broken me.]

I smiled, even though I didn’t want to.

“B-… oh, no, your… how do you say y — …”

“First name? Ecehan.” [Edge-eh-haun.]

She opened her mouth. I was faster. “The C makes a J sound.”

“Esh…”

“Edge.” Robotic at this point. I’ve spent most of my life rehearsing this line. The lamest catchphrase in the world, in 5… 4… 3… “Like the ‘edge’ of a table.” Clockwork. Hellish repetition.

“OoohhhhHHH!” She bursts into peals of laughter. “What a mouthful!” She’s still laughing. I’m still giving her a smile I don’t actually mean. I made matters worse and gave her a small, polite, fabricated laugh.

The old guy is interested now. He’s a white guy whose belly hangs over his waistband. Earlier he mentioned how he lost his pilot license. I get it now. He said, “Excuse me…”

I turn, charming smile plastered on my face. The twinkle in his eye is disconcerting. “I couldn’t help but overhear — “ Couldn’t you? “ — That’s an interesting name. Do you mind me asking — “ Inner Etchy sighs impatiently at how long he’s taking to ask the question I’ve answered a metric zillion times in my life. “ — what the, uh… the origin..?” Finally.

“It’s Turkish.” All smiles. All charm.

“Ohhh… well isn’t that — !” I don’t actually listen to how he finishes this sentence, sorry. He probably said ‘neat’ or ‘interesting’.

The lady behind the counter repeats her name-is-a-mouthful joke and she laughs again, with him joining in now. They’re having a blast. They’re trying to say my name and laughing at their failures. At this point, I may as well split into two people because I don’t even recognize the airy laugh I’m giving in return. It winds down. Outer Etchy smiles and shakes her head. I sign the back of my registration and tell the woman to have a good day (“!”), and I leave. I drop my smile the second I walk out the door.

That was exhausting, and it’s only 8:47am.