BARACK OBAMA and I have something in common. Unfortunately, it has nothing to do with drawing crowds of a hundred thousand or engendering a sense of hope and optimism in an entire generation. Nor has it anything to do with the ability to wear a white shirt for twenty-two minutes at a stretch without the sudden or, indeed, gradual appearance of mysterious stains and blemishes.
No, it's all to do with names. Or to be more specific, unconventional names. He is Barack. I am Fionnuala. And unlike the Johns and Peters and Helens and Marys of this world, the very act of attaching our name to a computer-written document elicits the prompt and angry appearance of a long, red, squiggly line.
The computer could not show its agitation more clearly if it managed to send out a short, sharp, electric shock through the keyboard. It's not so much an "Are you sure?" as much as an "Are you mad?"
No doubt Barack does not consider his own name to be unconventional or strange, although he may plump for unusual. Then again, now that he has other things on his mind, he may not plump for anything at all. But his name will always be a part of him. Our names always are.
In a way our names are us. Chances are, we've only existed on this planet for a couple of hours or at most, in the case of family dissent, a couple of days, in a nameless state. Our names have been with us, therefore, pretty much from the very beginning and they're the very first thing that'll go up on the headstone or on that label on the urn at the very end.
As a primary teacher I seem to spend a lot of my time extolling the virtue of names. Self-esteem programmes for the younger classes are all about "who we are" and "being special". Pupils busy themselves with crayons and colouring pencils, making sure that nothing goes outside the lines of a big, bubbly Emma or Tadhg, Caoimhe or Jack.
Of course, what I want to do is quietly take Caoimhe and Tadhg aside and fill them in on a thing or two: Emma and Jack will progress through life just swimmingly.
Not for them the distracted response of "I'm sorry, could you say that again?" or the trip abroad punctuated with regular bouts of "And does that mean anything?"
Caoimhe and Tadhg, on the other hand, have a lifetime of repetitions and "No, not reallys" ahead of them and worse . . . much worse.
Irish people, whilst enthusiastic recorders of the international variety, cannot spell Irish names. Patrick is easy enough but then again Patrick isn't actually an Irish name. Ciara is eminently guessable as is Cathal. Hard to go wrong with Cara and Aideen, Fintan and Finbar. But once you go beyond the acceptable . . . once you enter the realm of "eann" and "dbh" with the odd u and a nestling side by side - never mind the appearance of one or two stray fádas - an inertia sets in.
All those Jacks and Emmas and Fintans and Caras, smug in the knowledge that no-one ever spells their name wrong, simply give up. They'll make an effort. They might even bluster their way through Muiris or Siobhán but will baulk at anything approaching Doireann or Sadhbh. And as for Fionnuala, which, if the junior infants class is anything to go by, is heading for a sad and solemn demise, they as much as throw their hands in the air in exasperation.
But do I care? Yes, I do. Fionnualais me. It's who I am. Not Finnula or Finula, both of which I find oddly diminishing - as though I've been tightened and straightened to within an inch of my life. And Fionnula just makes me cross and frustrated at the same time - almost me but actually, no, not me, when you come right down to it.
Not so long ago, a colleague sent a note addressed to Finoola. I looked at this piece of paper and felt absolutely no connection with the addressee. Who was this Finoola person? Clearly a silly, frivolous kind of individual, judging by that double o's ability, to drag the middle part of the name right over the cliff and beyond. I marked it "unknown at this address" and sent it back.
AND SO IT WAS THAT I BEGAN to spell my name for the author at a recent book launch. To be honest, I didn't really want my name on the book at all. His signature would have sufficed and would also have allowed for a quick change of plan should I have found myself short of Christmas presents. But he was off and running with the "To . . ." before I had a chance to intervene.
"Fionnuala, that's F-I-O-N," I offered helpfully.
"No, I know. . . I know. . .".
He sounded so sure of himself that I decided that, maybe, he did. I watched as he added another "n" and then a "u" and an "l" and an "a". He finished with a flourish.
"No, there's another 'a'. You've missed an 'a'." Really, there could have been no mistaking the despair in my voice. The appropriate letter was slotted in. Well, not so much slotted in as squeezed, squashed, pushed and shoved into place. That messy, little something, struggling pathetically for existence between two fully-formed letters, was the last straw.
The whole world can now recognise and duplicate the name Barack. But short of running for the American presidency myself, there is simply no way of ensuring widespread exposure to my own name. So, I'm now thinking of adding a "q" and an "r" and tossing in an "x" and a "y" for good measure. It can surely make no difference.