Ashlee with two e’s

I’m in a group project when someone I don’t know types my name into the shared document.

Ashley.

I watch the cursor move past it, the “y” sitting at the end. I pause for a second, then click back, delete the “y” and type an “e” in its place.

Ashlee.

It’s a small correction, one I’ve made more times than I can count. My name isn’t particularly unusual. When I say it out loud, no one asks me to repeat myself. But when someone has to write it down, they tend to assume how it’s spelled.

So I’ve learned to add a clarification: “with two e’s.”

The spelling of my name comes up in small, everyday ways. Starbucks has never gotten it right unless I ordered through the app. I’ve looked at someone’s phone only to realize they’ve had my contact saved incorrectly for months. At dining halls, I’ve even heard employees call out, “Ashlee with two e’s!” when my food is ready.

Most of these moments are insignificant, but they remind me that the spelling of my name stands out.

To someone else, the difference between a “y” and two e’s might seem trivial. But to me, the spelling means more than simply being the less common version of a familiar name. 

My parents chose it because of my grandmother, Lee. The last three letters of my name carry hers.

Growing up, I didn’t always appreciate that meaning. Sometimes, having to explain my name felt more like an inconvenience than something special. My parents would joke that the common spelling – the one with a “y”– was the wrong version and mine was the right one. 

But when I was the one having to correct teachers, classmates or strangers, it didn’t feel that way.

There’s an awkwardness that comes with correcting someone over something seemingly so small. I didn’t want to interrupt. I didn’t want to embarrass them. More than anything, I didn’t want to seem annoying.

Once, while shopping at the mall, an employee wrote my name down for a dressing room. She showed it to me and asked if she had spelled it correctly.

She hadn’t. But instead of correcting her, I said yes.

I figured it didn’t matter because I was just trying on clothes. Adjusting the spelling felt more uncomfortable than letting one wrong letter stay where it was.

Later, when I went to check out, the same employee asked for my full name. This time, I had to spell it.

“A-S-H-L-E-E.”

She looked at me, confused.

“Why didn’t you tell me I spelled it wrong before?”

I didn’t have an answer other than the truth: I didn’t think it mattered.

But afterward, I kept thinking about that interaction. Why did it feel easier to pretend my own name was spelled differently than to make a simple correction?

As a journalism student, the irony isn’t lost on me. In journalism, names matter. 

Misspelling someone’s name isn’t treated as an insignificant typo. Accuracy starts with getting the most basic details about a person right and a name error can mean a failing grade on an assignment. 

If everyone who has misspelled my name were graded by those standards, there would be a lot of F’s.

Professors, classmates and strangers aren’t trying to get my name wrong. They simply hear “Ashlee” and assume they know what comes next.

That’s what my name has taught me most: how easy it is to assume.

For a long time, I saw correcting those assumptions as a burden. Now, I see it differently. Every time I retype my name or spell my name aloud for someone, I’m practicing something much bigger than spelling. I’m learning that correcting someone doesn’t make me difficult.

It’s OK to speak up when something isn’t right, even when doing so feels awkward.

Having the spelling of my name constantly assumed has made me more conscious of the assumptions I make about other people. Something that seems obvious to me, might not actually be true. 

Sometimes, all it takes is asking.

I still think it would be easier if my parents had spelled my name the more common way. There would be fewer corrections and less awkward explanations.

But easier doesn’t always mean better.

Those two e’s connect me to my grandmother and make a familiar name distinctly mine. Although I’ll probably spend the rest of my life correcting people, I no longer see that correction as an inconvenience.

Sometimes, standing up for yourself is as simple as deleting a “y” and adding an “e.”