My name is short for nothing. It’s simply Rhea. And as simple as that may seem it’s often mispronounced Rae or Rae-uh. I’ve always wondered why people never seem remember the simple rule I learned years ago on Sesame Street, “when two vowels go walking, the first one does the talking.” Because my name is so unique I’m often mistaken for Maria, Rita or Anita when introducing myself. Growing up I had plenty of nick-names spun from my name: Renny, Ree-Ree, Rhea Pea-uh. And as an immature mind can imagine, I’ve also been referred to as diarrhea, gonorrhea and rhea-tard. I’ve never really cared for my name. One summer years ago, I remember my grandmother referring to me as Rhë while I was helping her in the kitchen. She immediately apologized, “You probably don’t like that. Your name really is short enough as it is.” For the first time in my life, I saw someone actually take my feelings into consideration when calling me something other than my given name. And I liked it. She was the only one to ever call me Rhë until my husband came along. And the truth is I rather like Rhë. It’s short for something, isn’t mispronounced, and doesn’t spark immature minds. Just call me Rhë.