A.K.A. Snoopy

“So, what is your name?” I asked the student.

“My name…” He hesitated, voice flat.

“Yes, your first name, what is it? I know what they call you, Snoopy, but I want to know your real name.” I smiled—my question hung in the air—I’m intrigued, more so now, after seeing his slight hesitation.

He, the stubborn 15-year-old, grabbed his ID in a motion of protection. I walked near him, but realize I’m too late, he outsmarted me; he knew I would go for the ID—it was beyond my sight.

“I don’t like my first name. I prefer my middle name, Andres.” His accent is pronounced, yet his words are high and assured.

I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted his name. I wanted his true name.

“Come on, let me see… what is your name?” I said in Spanish.

Too embarrassed to even look at my face and too ignorant to intone his own name, he timidly handed over his ID.

I look at the ID and my lips curled into a smile. My mind attempts to decipher the name, to pronounce it correctly, but my pause is just too long. His name is truly a difficult one, uncommon.

“You see,” his eyes are triumphant in his own defeat, “that is why I don’t like the name.”

“Eh-ix-nhor” I stumbled out a pathetically phonetic imitation.

“Snoopy.” The boy corrects.