As some of you might know, the name on the cover of this book is not quite the one my parents put on my birth certificate.

No, no, I didn't create an entirely new pen name for myself since I am ashamed of my writing and want to be this anonymous force (if that was the case, my face wouldn't be plastered all over my freaking profile now, would it?). No, the reason why I changed my name here is actually quite a funny story.

As you know by now, I'm Mexican, and my parents, of course, gave me a Mexican name because even though I looked like a pale-white, golden-haired potato when I was born, I'm still pretty much 100% Mexican. So, in any case, my real name is JORGE. JORGE with a hard R, for all my English-speaking friends. I mention this because none of you seem to be able to pronounce my name correctly and it is relevant to the story that is about to follow.

It goes like this:

In my senior year of High School, I moved to the US with all my family. I don't currently live in the US anymore, but that's another story. The point is, I was going to have to start up in a new school, with people I had never met and who did not speak my mother tongue. Luckily for them, I can speak a fair amount of English, and my skills and vocabulary have only ever grown with time. There were a couple of less-than-proud moment when I slammed face-first into the language barrier, but again, different story.

This one is about my name.

So, as a naive exchange student, I slowly started to integrate to this new ecosystem. And let me tell you, I find American public high schools just fascinating. There is just a weird combination between luxury (coming from a guy who only ever attended schools in a developing country) and trashiness (coming from a guy who had never seen two girls start a cat-fight in the hallway, pulling off weaves and scratching each other with long, pink nails).

Anyway, as I made my way into this strange new world, it took me a couple of days to start making friends. I was fairly shy back then and had the social skills of Wilson, the volleyball from Cast Away. However, I did manage to hit up a conversation with a group of guys after our Astronomy class (yes, I did take Astronomy in high school. It blew my mind when I learned that it was a subject I could take). For clarity's sake, I should mention that this was an impressively diverse group. I'm talking "core group from a YA dystopian novel" diverse. Adding me, the latino exchange student could have probably granted them some sort of diversity grant from the federal government. We had two white guys, an African-American guy, an Italian, and Billy, whose mom was white, dad was black, but was so stupid that he probably got most of his genes from our ancestors, the monkeys. The takeaway here is that all of them were, as Bruce Springsteen would say, "Born in the USA", and their Spanish-speaking skills were limited to the menu at Taco Bell.

After talking for a little while, it was then that I realized that I had yet to tell my name to my new friends. Being my usually polite self, I asked them what their names were. They told me and then asked mine. Jeremy, the african-american one, asked most of the questions.

Here's how it went:

Me: Jorge

They: *Cue look of confusion*

Jeremy: What?

Me: Jorge

Jeremy: HoHey?

Me: No, dude. Jorge. With a hard R.

Billy: Hoehey.

Me: No, you're saying it too soft. You have to roll your tongue. Try it out. Jorrrrrrrrrge.

Jeremy: Ho- Ho- Who- Whore-Hey!

If my memory doesn't fail me, I believe that it was right about then that everyone lost their shit. They laughed like hyenas as I stared with a blank look on my face, shocked at the way my name had been so mercilessly massacred.

I was Whore for the rest of the semester. The worst part is that I didn't even live up to my name. I was a socially awkward, quiet guy with the reputation of a drunken sorority girl.

And that's why I go by George to any English speakers now.