Ayana Hamilton kept looking — but never did find herself on any of the road trips her family took when she was growing up. Turns out, she was looking in the wrong place.
AYANA HAMILTON: It felt like my family and I traveled to Las Vegas every other year growing up because it was my dad’s favorite place. He had one strict rule on road trips, though: no attractions. I remember visiting the Hoover Dam once, but that was about as adventurous as we got. The only real stops were for food or gas.
I have a complicated relationship with gas stations. I refuse to use the bathrooms for obvious reasons. I would get the candy bar Snickers. But my favorite part was the souvenir racks. You know, personalized fridge magnets, key chains, mugs and even jewelry. The best souvenirs were displayed on a spinning carousel. Every time our family stopped, I’d flip through — hoping my name would magically appear.
It never did.
My name is Ayana, spelled A-Y-A-N-A. At 25, I’ve only met a handful of other Ayanas, and none of them spell it with one N, which I think designates me as the one true Ayana. On those carousels, the closest I ever got was ANYA. Meanwhile my brother and dad, who share the name Tony, could find a Nevada license plate keychain without even trying.
For a long time I thought my mom understood my struggle of not being a part of the name souvenir club because I never saw her name on those racks, either. Her name is Verna, V-E-R-N-A.
Then one year, everything changed.
I was around 12 years old when we were on our usual drive to Vegas. We stopped at a gas station that had a fast food spot attached to it, so we stayed longer than usual. I did my ritual scan of the carousel and came up empty as always.
But there was VERNA, sitting right between some other names like it had always belonged there. I grabbed it and ran to my mom. She was genuinely surprised, almost in disbelief, because she’d spent her whole life not finding her name, either.
I felt joy and jealousy in equal measure. She must have noticed the look on my face because she got quiet for a moment and said she remembered something. Something she had made for me a long time ago. She told me to remind her when we got home. It was the only thing on my mind the whole drive back.
When we got home, my mom went into the garage and pulled out a cardstock sign about the size of my torso. It was a little crinkled from years of being tucked away, but my name was hand-painted, still bright in rainbow colors. She told me she had it custom made during a stop in Vegas when our family was traveling from Alaska to Arizona, back when I was barely a toddler. She said she forgot she had it, but she made it because my name was unique and she wanted me to have something special.
I still spin through the name souvenirs, sometimes, out of habit, knowing I won't find myself there. But I don't need to anymore. I already have something better than a keychain, proof that my name was always worth the extra effort.
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At KJZZ's The Show, we love bringing you conversations about life in the Valley and beyond. Now we want to know what's happening in your head. -
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