A rose by any other...

I once knew a person with the most extraordinarily unfortunate name.
Barfuss.
Its literal German translation is barefoot which in itself actually seems quite romantic and nice. However, neither this boy nor any other English-speaking person could possibly delude themselves into believing that a dancing foot is the first image to come into one's mind upon hearing this name.
Perhaps in Germany the image is different.

I always considered my last name to be one of my greatest attributes. Certainly, it gets mistaken with the dozens of other Scandinavian derived names that are similar to it, "Christianson" or "Christopherson." And the saved assignments from my kindergarten and even first grade classes prove it is almost impossible to spell-- my name, scrawled C-H-R-U-N-T-E-N-S-O-N in sloppy, childish writing at the top. But neither of these minor drawbacks has ever been enough to cow my immense pride in the fact that there is very little in my name open for mockery. It doesn't rhyme with any obscene words. It doesn't have any tainted similitude with inglorious or infamous stars, like Simpson or Manson. And, most importantly, it certainly does not bring forth any unwanted images of things that elementary-aged children glory in: toilets. Poop. Bums.
It is because of my name that I was able to slip through my childhood unscathed. Being shy and rather timid, I was neither confronted nor bullied. Certainly, I had large glasses that sat too low upon my nose and a secret love of Jane Austen novels, but my name allowed me to avoid the clutches of stereotypes quite beautifully. With a torment-free name, I was able to be myself without attracting any unwanted attention. Free to read my novels in peace, I silently gloried in my name, and dreaded the day when it would change. I was sure that, if ever I did marry, my good fortune would certainly turn on me. I would marry the most handsome man in the world, who would in turn make me the very happy Mrs. Duckworth, or Vasilyevech. I was doomed. Being a girl and very young, I was quick to actualize the thoughts of marriage without understanding what marriage itself entailed.  I was under the strange impression that after one married, if the last name was unsuitable to both the husband and wife, these two could commune together to choose and lawfully change their last name. At this point in time, I already had my name picked, and I would not marry any man who disapproved. My last name was to be cat, C-A-T. Plain, yes. Reproachable, perhaps. But for my undying love of the creature, there was no shame in it. So Joslynn Cat it was to be.

So after Jason married me I was a little disappointed when I realized my lifelong dream could never be. I am, thoroughly and completely now, Joslynn Barton. Looking through my mailbox, however, someone might contest this, thinking there were several Joslynns (Christensen, Christianson, and Barton) living in my home, as well as a Jocelyn and a Jason Barker. Even so, besides being greatly endeared to the Barton family, I am grateful that I have scraped through yet again. I am greatly relieved to know that, like my own dear family's surname, Jason's legacy has as little to do with toilets as mine.

To the unlucky Barfusses of the world, I salute you.