I have this tinfoil hat theory that the majority of names in their very natures are false advertisements. Whatever title a person is gifted at birth, that name will usually never encompass or represent the essence of a unique human being that has never existed before and will never exist again. In short, this simple aspect of identity fundamentally undersells what a particular individual is all about. I bring this up because I bear an unusual point of view on this matter that justifies the existential crisis I have indulged in for the last decade of my life. 

This conversation wouldn’t exist if my parents had just decided to Google “Cute Arabic Girl Names” a day or two before I was born. My brother is named after a figure of justice, bravery and diligence in Islamic culture. My sister is named after the feminine form of the door of heaven, representing God’s mercy, generosity, and compassion for the righteous. And I’m Rain. Yeah. Just straight up Rain. 

You know the awfully inconvenient drops of water that decide to show up at the worst possible times? Hi! That’s me – the bringer of children’s tantrums when they realize they can’t go outside, and the cause of their parents’ headaches. I’m the uninvited guest at countless outdoor weddings and parks on unsuspecting sunny summer days that shows up for the sole purpose of pissing everyone off. I’m the little cloud symbol with four forsaken water drops in the weather app that you scowl at before begrudgingly driving to work. I’m nature’s foul wrath and persistent pettiness. I’m Rain. 

The way I saw it, my parents were inspired when they named my brother, creative when they named my sister, and bored when they named me. I can’t remember the first of many times I’ve told my parents that just because my name is “different” doesn’t mean it’s good, but it must have been then that an enemies-to-friends relationship sprung up between me and that four-lettered word. Vague dislike towards Rain crept over me when I understood the strange looks and side eyes I got when I introduced myself in middle school. At first, I speculated that I might have something on my face and that was the reason why the other kids collectively had sour looks on their faces when they turned to stare, but it eventually clicked that there could only be so many times that I’d coincidently have something on my face when I consistently drew those expressions. 

Lingering annoyance turned into specific irritation as I learned of other faulty aspects of my name. Besides the old but gold classics like “Rain, Rain, Go Away” that my classmates cleverly chimed in unanimously to sing together, I noticed that the name in and of itself was utterly ambiguous; I had questions that couldn’t be answered. Is Rain a boy or a girl? What is Rain’s ethnicity? What’s the equivalent of the word “rain” in Arabic? The last question is especially ironic since two Arabic words describe rain, but don’t mean rain, so I can’t escape from the confusion with Arabian folks either. In a sea of a million names that flatter and beautify the recipient, Rain sure as hell isn’t the first name you’d pick, and it’d be lucky if it made the top 999,999 choices. 

If you were to ask me what moment I officially jumped the metaphorical ship on the whole “My name is weird but semi-tolerable” mindset, I’d have to point to that fateful day in 4th grade. I came to form a sort of system of procedures during attendance. With trial and error, I had gathered enough data to know what mannerisms triggered certain reactions or provocations from the class (like if I look up when my name is called, there’s always going to be that one kid that meets my eyes and begins to ask “Is that your real name?” for the tenth time that week, or if I stay still and act invisible, the chances of somebody poking me and giggling decreases by roughly 30 percent, and so on and so forth).

Unfortunately, my improvisation skills were thoroughly horrendous, and conversing without a script is objectively every introvert’s personal hell. Let’s set the scene: I was already in proper formation, staring down at the pink stringy laces of my shoes and fiddling with my fingers in anticipation. But the second the substitute teacher looked wide-eyed at the attendance sheet and cackled, “Rain? Who names their kid Rain?” all my training flew out the window, and I mentally followed. 

Here’s the truth about being a spineless kid with naive expectations: Having another nine-year-old sucker snickering at my name was one thing, but having an adult do it was so flabbergasting to me that I couldn’t process a response other than a shrug of agreement and an unbelievably awkward smile. Something about a grown-up agreeing with my classmates’ gut-wrenching remarks instead of rebuking them proved to me that they were right all along. I was relieved that the class occupied themselves by laughing rather than suffocating me with watchful silence as I quietly dried the tears that fell on the desk. The less defensive I was, the sooner they’d get bored and move on. I’d shut up and eat it. 

Can I look back at this and agree that I overreacted with the strength of a thousand soap operas? Without a doubt. But I think that when you’re new to the world and just making your debut into social life and interpersonal connections, it makes all the difference if somebody smiles or sneers at you when they say your name.

After all, your name is the first impression society makes of you. For most people, it’s never cause for judgment. In my case, that’s the only reason anybody needed to judge me. I found that giving people my name was constantly the worst part of any introduction since I would offer a word that embodied insecurity and pray that the other would accept it. Needing to speculate on their every subtle facial expression when I grumbled that four-letter word is what led me to create an irrational fear of feeling dismissed and disregarded for a title I was born with. “Rain” did not feel like a word attached to my soul; instead, it felt like a mechanical trigger that signaled to my brain that I was being referred to, but my heart would never respond. I was never being called. 

As a little kid barely in her double digits, there wasn’t much I could do to gain agency in my life: the reins were in my parents’ hands, and oh boy, were they gripping on tightly to them. Once, I asked my mom if I could change my name. She humored me by saying I could, but only when I was 18. She said something about a “legal process” in which “official records had to be altered,” which translated in 10-year-old talk to mean that after turning 18 I could skip to the White House, flip through a book of aesthetically pleasing names, harass the president into changing mine, and then dance out of the building born again as a “Lana” or an “Ayah.” But 18 seemed like a lifetime away, and I wasn’t playing the long game. This inspired me to try to bribe my mom with a broken Twix bar and crumpled dollar bills to change my name for me. She just smiled and patted my head, saying she liked me the way I was. 

In my grand act of rebellion against my parents for cursing me, I began a phase known as “What name do I want to wear today?” The title says it all; be it at Starbucks or a party meeting new people I’d never have to see again, I would give out fake names to every person I would encounter and “impress” for a short time with an awesome normal name. Most days I would steal my mom’s name, but if I was in a frisky mood I went with my favorite Disney princess, Jasmine. With this idea of name swapping, I could shake my fist at the sky along with everybody else and groan whenever we saw water cascading onto the Earth. This faceless mask I wore officially made me a part of them. I could hate Rain, too. Besides, it was much easier than hearing the question, “Why is your name Rain?” When I couldn’t avoid answering it, I would respond with the same lengthy story my mother told me the first time I asked her.

Summers in Syria promised a relentlessly blazing sun void of mercy and scorching heat that ran rampant across the country, and they haven’t broken that oath once. With the rarity of rain showers, each drop falling onto the Earth was a blessing and a moment of respite from the tribulations of summer. On the day in June I was born, water flowed from the sky for hours on end. Empty-handed with a name for their daughter, my parents rushed at the opportunity to name her after the gift of life that proved nature’s unconditional love. 

This is the flip side of the dilemma that I haven’t considered much until now – a significant portion of the narrative that I didn’t believe was worth sharing. When my name wasn’t demonized, it was idolized. Handfuls of people I’ve met have noted in passing that they adore my name and wish to pass it on to their children one day. For the longest time, I considered these words to be pity-driven flattery, but the more I thought about the origin of my name, the more I concluded that there was a different perspective that I hadn’t been fair enough to examine: There were people out there who revered Rain. 

You know the miraculously convenient drops of water that decide to show up at the best possible times? Hi! I guess that’s also me – the pools of cool water that children jump gleefully in and the cause of muddy rain boots and worn-out raincoats after an endless day of fun outside. I’m the savior that farmers pray for when their crops wilt and die helplessly. I’m the shimmering diamonds glistening on wet blades of grass after the clouds depart and the sun reemerges. I’m the mist that clears and forms a row of brilliant outstretching rainbows in its wake that touch the heavens and caress the Earth. I’m nature’s infinite beneficence and inexplicable devotion to life. I’m not a punishment. I’m a gift! I’m Rain. 

And I’m still not satisfied with that.

Strangely enough, you’d think that if I heard people tell me that they prefer rainy weather to sunny weather or the aesthetic appeal of my name to any other, then I’d feel complete; that hollow part of me that was eager for approval would finally overflow with pride. But it didn’t make me feel anything. There was something in this portrayal of Rain that wasn’t completely legitimate either. It’s the flattering and graceful aspect of Rain, but it’s not the whole story. It’s a romanticized fantasy that comes off as just as biased as the other two-dimensional portrayals, a lack of indispensable essence obvious in both versions. Being perceived through idolization or demonization painted such a distorted picture of the person I was.

Neither extreme made me wear the name comfortably. Neither extreme understood me. 

There is no defining memory that drastically altered the way I discerned my name. No “Aha!” moment like in all my favorite childhood movies. But there was a seed of clarity planted in my mind ever since I grasped the concept of complexity that only flourished with time: Binaries exist in the world, and two or more conflicting things can be true at once. It’s like the first time you use the word “maybe” instead of “yes” or “no.” Sometimes it’s the answer in the middle that makes the most sense; it’s the answer that combines both options and expresses a firmer sense of accuracy than the other definitive ones. The ambiguity in my name that I formerly loathed was the only key that unlocked this door to translucency. 

Nothing in and of itself defines what it means to be Rain. It is not my mother’s and father’s admiration of rain that reminds them of my birthday, nor is it my classmates’ whines when they see a storm forming over the playground. It is both of those things – everything all at once. It is when I condemn the sky for pouring down water when I go for a walk to clear my head and then later be kept company by the soft pattering of rain against my window in a usual night of restlessness. This expression of inner duality is what gave me the lucidity to look at myself in the mirror and see Rain grinning back at me. 

I don’t like names because the majority of them represent a manifestation of what a person is meant to become: an incomparable individual named after a beloved distant relative or a legendary cultural figure. The failure of such a concept comes from the disingenuous nature of its vow. Despite the man of perseverance my brother shares a name with, he hardly ever takes out the garbage when I nag him to. Despite the symbol of generosity my sister is named after, she tortures us with her squawking whenever she doesn’t get a toy she wants.

But what did I expect? There’s a disservice done to both of them in that they are expected to be simplistic and perfect because of their namesakes, when people are in nature three-dimensional beings with faults. A real name humanizes you. It’s a title that should be accurate to who you are. So in a million names that purposefully highlight the glamorized aspects of a person, I’d only ever pick a name that speaks the truth about me. One that tells my full story – the good, the bad, and the hideously beautiful parts of who I am. 

I am everything. I am the storm that floods cities and the phenomenon that gives salvation to plants. I destroy childhood homes in raging waves and embrace the tears of those who stand willingly alone without an umbrella just to feel something from the soothing drops rolling down their faces. I clean abandoned tombstones and fog up your car windows so you can draw a heart or scribble your own name on the canvas I created for you. Frustrating and troublesome, gracious and affectionate, I am everything the name “Rain” claims I am. It does all the talking for me; all I have to do is reach out my hand to shake yours. I am Rain, and that is all you’ll ever need to know about me.

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Featured image BY CLAY LECONEY FROM UNSPLASH