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I'm among the people who sometimes sighs about certain British people's insistence on mispronouncing my name (nope, not Camilla). But as this poem reveals, the far deeper problem is when 'they' teach you to mispronounce your own name. Also, it's just a gorgeous poem.
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I spent 19 years mispronouncing my name so others will be able to say it. I wrote this poem about learning/unlearning that habit.
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I suppose the question is whether the American Rabih feels like a more comfortable skin you made for yourself or something forced on you via shaming (as in the poem). Or something else
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