During the first months I set foot in America, I became confounded. The Starbucks cafe near the university had become my regular hangout. It was no more than a ten or twelve-minute walk to the office and cozy, with a spacious patio where you could sit under the shade of its tall trees and keep your head in your books for hours. Sometimes I would pick up my university assignments before crashing in a chair on the patio. Depending on my mood or the weather, I ordered a hot coffee, an iced latte, a cinnamon cappuccino, or something like that. Every time the barista would pick up a blue or black marker, put it on the cup, and stare at me.

 "Your name?" he’d ask.

"Ali," I replied every time and waited for him to take notes.

But he’d pause and then ask, “What?”

I would blush, thinking my accent was terrible or wonder why he did not understand such an easy name. I would bend over on the counter and repeat it slowly.

“Ali.”

The barista always tried badly to glide the marker on the cup and get it over with, but as if his conscience would not allow it, he’d ask again.

“Ali? Or Ali? ”

Ali or Ali? In the first, the emphasis was on A: AHHH-le. In the second, on l and i: ah-LEE. The former was pronounced sharper and the latter would be longer. Which one would I prefer?

I shrugged, which meant “how should I know” so sometimes “as you wish.” I had no zeal.‌ I did not have to bring any document to prove that my name was important or special. It was one of the thousand things that were chosen for me. What if I changed it one day? Each time between Ali and Ali, I would choose one and say it back to him. It took five minutes to prepare the drink. In the meantime, I looked at the people, at the steamed-up windows, and at the headlines of the newspapers stacked on each other. It was the barista’s loud voice that would bring me back to myself:

"Coffee for Ali."

I would raise my hand and go to the counter to pick up my drink. I’d look at the cup and the name that was carefully written on it:

"Alie."

Other times he even wrote: "Alley."

Sometimes: "Alli."

Even: “Aly.”

As time passed, hearing "what?" every time I said my name became normal for me. I became indifferent to the barista mispronouncing my name or writing a new version of its spelling on the cup. Sometimes I even wanted to be surprised. I looked at the cup to see what new name I got this time. Why did I have to limit myself to Ali?

What was the difference between the name I was given and the name on the cup? Do we give identity to our names or do our names define our identities? I had no problem with my name. I can even say I loved it, or at least it had passed beyond the point where it was no longer easy for me to understand the difference between habit and love. Do we hate our names or hate what we have made them? Someone who does not want his name doesn’t like his clothes. If he’s wearing a ragged robe, why doesn't he take it off? ‌ Why doesn't he darn its holes?

Ali was a beautiful name to me. What exactly do we mean when we tell people they have beautiful names? Is the one with a prior meaning better or the one to which we give meaning? ‌ Whatever Ali meant to me, it was not the meaning of its Arabic word. It was something better, superior, higher, or alike. It was something else. Like a private memory or a summary of a story we had together. Could I have this under any other name?  Days passed until I finally made my decision. The thought of a new nominal experience tickled me like a childish mischief.

In the cafe, the baristas worked in shifts. They were usually freshman or sophomore students of our university who worked part-time to pay for their studies. The cafe was usually so crowded that nobody noticed anyone else, let alone baristas keeping customer first names in their minds. But that day, I was anxious, as if I wanted to forge something. The cashier was a 20-year-old girl. She put a marker on the cup and smiled as she looked up at me.

"May I ask your name?"

The problem was that I had not chosen any names in advance. I was not used to any name other than the usual one.

Wasn't the fact that I wanted to choose a new name a kind of disrespect or lack of appreciation for our long-standing friendship? ‌ A sense of mutual love? The things I did for it and the things it did for me? But the question was if I was Ali.

I floundered. The girl stared at me in surprise.

"Ali...ex,” I said. Letters and words stuck in my throat, and then they forced their way out. The barista brought her head forward.

"Did you say Alex?"

Alex. The voice of the young woman reverberated in my head.

“Say yes. Why not?” I asked myself.  At least it was good for a start. I felt like I was jumping from a cliff.. I nodded my head in approval.

"Mmm... yes..."

The cashier quickly wrote "Alex" on the cup. I looked into her eyes where a slight satisfaction was hidden behind them. I was at ease as someone who had passed the entrance exam for somewhere. Where exactly? I paid and walked away from the cash register. My head spun. I had jumped from a height and did not know where I had landed. Why Alex? ‌ What if I wanted to be Robert or Justin or William?‌ How long would it take for me to dare to be them? ‌

The barista's voice filled the café.

"Coffee for Alex?"

I looked around. Just like Ali, Alex was not anyone else’s name. I had to be careful. I eyed the counter for a few seconds. Next to me, a middle-aged man toyed indifferently with his cellphone. On my other side, two girls, aged fifteen or sixteen, bantered. Two or three people sat on benches outside. It was not crowded. No one came forward. No Alex stepped forward. Maybe it was me. I approached cautiously. I gently picked up the coffee cup from the counter and took it in my hand. The barista came forward.

She looked into my eyes and asked loudly. "Alex?"

I was receiving a new house deed. My lips trembled. I raised my head and spoke more boldly this time.

"Yes," I said.

I picked up the coffee and walked away from the counter. I left the cafe feeling light. My steps moved faster than ever, involuntarily. I did not know where I was going, I just wanted to get away. We—I, Ali, Alex— all walked away.

fall 2022

published in the other side of hope Magazine