(This story takes place when I was around five or six. It’s the holiday and we’re visiting my grandparents. My father is the seventh kid of eight, so they all have names familiar in their generation but not in mine.)

Me: “Hey, Dad?”

Father: “Yes, Son?”

Me: “When am I going to change my name?”

Father: *confused* “What do you mean, change your name?”

Me: “At what age do kids change their name?”

Father: *even more confused* “They don’t change their names; what makes you think that?”

Me: “Well, I have a kid’s name; I’ll probably change to an adult name like yours when I grow up.”

Father: “No, you won’t. You’ll always have that name.”

Me: *finally starting to understand* “YOU MEAN YOU’VE ALWAYS HAVE THAT NAME? AN OLD NAME? A KID WITH AN OLD NAME?!”

Father: “…”

Me: *lost in thoughts* “Wow… must’ve been weird.”