Ani

Usually when I am introduced, or when I introduce myself, there is a problem with my name.

"I'm Ansley," I say.

I usually get The Look, as if I had told them to feed their cat purple crayons.

I say it again. "ANS-ley." I even let the "aa" be an "ah" which is more familiar to the Spanish-speaking tongue.

The new aquaintance will say "Oh! Ozley!" or "Anshee?" or "Ashley, how nice to meet you."

I learned the Spanish alphabet out of necessity because I needed to spell out my name. I'm pretty good at firing it off.

"No," I'll say, "ANS-ley, like ah-enay-esay-elay-ay-i-gri-ega."

So maybe we can get through this, maybe they can figure it out the first time. But the next time we see each other, they either can't remember my name at all, or they come up with something totally different.

It's just a hard name.

As I get tired of spelling out and repeating and then being called something funny, I usually just go with Ani. It's easy, and familiar. I'd rather have the wrong name that everyone gets right than the right name that everyone gets wrong.

One church family in Pachacutec called me Anita for a few days of medical campaign, taking Ani and adding the affectionate "ita" ending. Whatever, I thought.

I also get Angie a lot. I'm to the point where I'll pretty much answer to anything. "Hey, you, gringa," works too, although I'm not too fond of it.

For my close friends, the families I stay with, and the people who know me well, I am Ansley. But for the church members, the people we work with in clinic, and for our campers at campmeeting, I am Ani.

One of our Bible workers, Germán, started calling me Francie in Masisea. I thought this was hilarious, and made the mistake of not correcting him. A few weeks ago, when Germán's work in Masisea was finished, he showed up at Km 38 to work on our tractor. I came out of the kitchen in the caretaker's house and saw him pulling up in a moto.

"Francie!" he yelled, "How are you, my little daughter?"