For Christmas, my mom gave me a new wheeled carry-on suitcase. She also ordered a personalized luggage tag engraved with my initials, ZKT.
The tag I got, though, bears the letters LMA. I concluded that must mean the suitcase’s name is Louisa May Alcott, so that’s how I refer to her.
I assume someone out there got my ZKT tag. I have no reason to believe that person—or, going by my site traffic numbers, any person—will ever see this. But if you happen to have received the tag and wonder what the letters stand for, the answer is Zachary Kirk Thompson.
I have long felt the center portion of my name contains too many “k” sounds, what with “Kirk” following close behind the “-ach” in “Zachary.” But I hardly ever use my middle name anyway.
My father has the same middle name, and he hardly ever uses his first, presumably because he shared a first name with his own father and that could have gotten confusing. My paternal grandmother once told me she had wanted to name my dad “Kirk Douglas,” like the movie star. But then my grandfather insisted his son be named after him, so my dad’s first-and-middle name combo is “James Kirk,” like the starship captain.
But my grandma couldn’t have known that, since my father was born more than a decade before the original Star Trek series aired and, like, 280 years before Captain Kirk will be born.
As for me, not only do I not use my middle name, but I don’t really use my first name, either—just a few letters at the beginning. I blame society.
When you have a name of three syllables or more and the name is easy to shorten—your Zacharys, your Benjamins, your Christophers, your Elizabeths, your Samanthas—it’s nearly impossible to persuade others not to opt for the shortened version. I once knew an Alexandra who didn’t want to be known as Alex, and the entire world was like, Sorry, not an option.
When I started using the one-syllable abridgment on homework and such, I originally spelled it “Zach.” But I didn’t like the “h” at the end and I didn’t feel I should go with “Zack” or “Zak” because there’s no “k” in Zachary. So I landed on “Zac.”
To help with the transition, I would underline the “c” in my signature to emphasize the spelling. And when someone would ask how I spell my name—something you’re asked a lot as a Zach, Zack, Zak, or Zac—I’d say, “Z-A-C, underline the ‘c’!” to universal blank stares.
Many folks still don’t spell it right, but I try to practice patience. Unless of course I’ve known the misspeller for years. In that case the error feels like a personal attack. Or an attac, as it were.
As for Zachary, the only people who refer to me that way at this point are select family members, medical personnel calling me back to examination rooms, and Lyft drivers. The app must have told me to enter my full name when I was setting up my profile.
Curiously enough, these gig workers often place the stress in “Zachary” on the second syllable rather than the first. “sahk-AHR-ee?” they’ll ask when I approach their cars at, say, Logan International Airport.
“That’s me,” I’ll reply. “And now if you don’t mind, I need to put Louisa May Alcott in your trunk.”
Indirect Objects 