An Open Letter to Everyone Who Has Called Me Adrianna at the Local Coffee Shop

To Whom It May Concern (And You Know Who You Are),

I am writing this letter from my regular seat — the corner window table at Brewed Awakenings on Maple, the one with the slightly wobbly leg that I have learned to manage. I am drinking an oat milk latte. It is in a cup that says “A.” — just the initial — because I gave up providing my full name after the incident on March 3rd, which I will get to.

This letter is for you. All of you. The baristas, the regulars, the woman who does yoga on Wednesdays and always looks at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle, and yes, Marco at the counter who has known me for three years and still — still — occasionally calls me Adrianna while making direct eye contact.

I want to begin by saying: I harbor no ill will. What follows is a measured, mature, and legally non-actionable account of my feelings regarding this ongoing situation.

The Incident on March 3rd

I walked in on a Tuesday morning. I said, “Hi, can I get an oat milk latte, please?” The barista — a new hire, I will not use her name — typed something into the register and said, “And your name?”

I said, “A. Smith.”

She typed. She looked up. She said, “Oh! Adrianna! Like the regular?”

And here is where I made my mistake. I said, “No — A. Smith.” And she said, “Right, Adrianna Smith!” and I said “That’s not—” and she had already turned to make the coffee and call out “Oat latte for Adrianna!” to the room, and twelve people looked up, and three of them said, “Oh, Adrianna!” with the warmth of recognition, and one of them waved at me, and I — I waved back, because I am human and the social pressure was immense.

The cup said “Adrianna.” I drank from it. I have not recovered.

To Marco, Specifically

Marco. Buddy. We have known each other since this café opened. You have seen me here in rain, in sunshine, in the depths of a project crisis with my laptop overheating and my eyes bloodshot. You made me a free coffee when my cat was sick. (My cat’s name is not Archie. Please do not ask.)

Why, Marco? Why?

I give you my name every single time I order. I say “A. Smith” with the clear, measured enunciation of a person who has been burned before. And you nod, and you smile, and you make my drink, and then you look at the cup you have written on and you call out — I am quoting directly — “Oat latte for Adrianna!”

Is this a joke? I have considered that it is a joke. If it is a joke, please signal this in some way. Raise an eyebrow. Wink. Give me some indication that we are in on this together. Because right now, I am standing in the middle of Brewed Awakenings holding a cup that says “Adrianna” on it, and I am doing the smile of a person who has decided to let it go, and deep down, Marco, something is fraying.

To the Woman Who Does Wednesday Yoga

You looked at me last week and said, “Aren’t you Adrianna? From the design thing?”

I said, “I’m A. Smith. Also in design.”

You said, “Right, right — and you go by Adrianna?”

I said, “No.”

You said, “Hm,” and tilted your head like a dog hearing a new sound, and then said, “You just really look like an Adrianna.”

I have thought about this a lot. What does it mean to look like an Adrianna? Is “Adrianna” a type? An energy? A set of features? Can a person radiate Adrianna-ness through their bone structure and the way they hold their coffee cup? I have no answers. Only questions and oat milk.

To Everyone Else

I understand that Adrianna may be a person of local renown. I understand she may frequent this café and that her face, perhaps, has become associated with “someone who looks like me.” I am not disputing that Adrianna exists or that she comes here or that she orders oat milk lattes because we apparently have the same taste in coffee.

What I am disputing is that I am her.

I am A. Smith. I have a passport, a portfolio website, a bank account, a cat, and a sourdough starter that I have not named. I am a real and distinct individual with my own complete identity, and that identity is not Adrianna’s.

I am asking, kindly, earnestly, and with the full weight of someone who has been called the wrong name 312 times this year alone: please get it right.

My name is on the cup. Just read the cup.

With exhausted affection,

A. Smith (Not Adrianna. The “A.” stands for something else. It has always stood for something else.)

P.S. — If Adrianna herself ever reads this: I am sorry if this has been confusing for you too. I imagine people have been giving you my messages. I have been getting what I assume are your messages. The one about the Portugal trip sounds lovely. I hope you have a wonderful time. I have never been.