Sunday Paper, Year IV, Issue 26)

Listen, there’s some exciting things happening at the Sucich house, so next week I’ll be interrupting the guest posts with a post of my own to tell you about the big happenings….and that will also happen to fall on a big day…

…but this week I’m thrilled to continue the guest posts with - in a first - a comedian friend of mine.

Her name is Maylin Pavletic and in addition to being a talented comedian she is also a talented writer.

I’ve been wanting to get more comedian voices on the site for a while now, and I always admire Maylin’s mix of humor and intelligence.

So, I’ll turn the reins over to her, and if you like what you read, you can hear more from Maylin (and a funny lineup of other comedians) at Comedy Night at Exhibit ‘A’ on July 13th! Tickets are available here.

What’s in a name? Way more than any star-crossed, boy-crazy Shakespeare character would want to admit.

Although my last name doesn’t have the same heft as “Capulet” or “Montague,” it’s still pretty distinctive. I’ve heard telemarketers, grade school teachers, and first dates all struggle to pronounce it in a way that sounds “authentic.”

“Hello there, Ms. Pahv-LEET-ick?”

“Is PAVE-lit-ACK here?”

“Hey, you’re that PavLETahk girl, aren’t you?”

Each time I smile.

Each time I nod.

Each time I think about moving to Croatia just for the chance to hear my surname pronounced correctly. But even then, it would take me a second to realize someone is addressing me.

My last name actually isn’t my so-called “real” one. When my great-grandfather came to the US, one key piece in his jumble of inherited letters didn’t come off the boat with him. Pavletic, although it’s spelled similarly with the Croatian alphabet, is actually supposed to be pronounced Pavletich. Either way, it kind of sounds like an incurable medical condition. Whenever someone says my name correctly, I imagine they’re some chain smoking doctor from the ‘60s delivering the news that as a Pavletic, I will no longer be able to use normal deodorant while any children I carry to term will have lizard skin and come out screeching like a pterodactyl. (I mean, they probably will, but it will be due to my hefty consumption of Four Loko in college.)

Despite all the mispronunciations, I love my name. It serves as a simple litmus test for everyone I meet. Do they pronounce it correctly and recognize where my family’s from (like John did when we first shook hands at a standup show)? Or do they pause and ask “what ethnicity is that?” If their response is the latter, chances are they’re a grizzled old wheeze bag trying to figure out if I’m white enough to be worthy of his attention.

Quick disclaimer: This Sunday Paper isn’t a calculated attempt to “other” myself or prove I have the same struggles as someone of color. I don’t. Not by a long shot. Those who try to claim that there’s harmful discrimination against white people are beyond myopic—they’re dangerous. Almost nothing is more of a threat to the pursuit of justice and equality than a privileged person trying to equate their problems with those up against centuries of racism and institutionalized oppression. It’s a treacherous world for those who don’t fit into the illusion of whiteness. Having to deal with a dingus who tries to figure out if I’m part of his milky racial echelon is an annoyance, not an injustice.

Really, the worst part of being Croatian is the dark hair. (And the stain of genocide forever associated with the nation, but that’s a whole different article.) I can grow a mustache scragglier and scuzzier than any pubescent football star’s. Missing a day on my carefully crafted shaving schedule transforms me from “a young professional lady” into “Stalin in drag.” As a kid, I tried to cure myself with a glob of Nair on my upper lip, but it left an excruciating chemical burn—which brought even more attention to this cursed area. The next day, I walked into my fourth grade class looking like someone who dove lip-first into a bundle of pricker bushes. Like all grade school wounds, my tender skin healed, though the embarrassment’s still scarred into my memory forever.

These days, in between leg waxing, brow plucking, and shaving, I’m hoping I can eventually get the courage to stop caring so much. It’s exhausting to engage in an uphill battle against something as benign as hair. It takes time, money, and energy that could easily be put to use for more meaningful projects. Someday, I’ll walk on stage to do a set with my mustache in its full bushy glory. Maybe I’ll even dye it with a shock neon blue. Then again, I’ve already learned a lesson or two about my upper lip’s chemical sensitivities.

In addition to catching Maylin at Exhibit ‘A’ on July 13th (Tickets available here!) you can find her work on her website. There you’ll find other pieces of writing - and illustrating - that display the aforementioned humor and intelligence. Check out the State Quarterlies series for a prime example of that.