There’s a name in my ID, but that means nothing. Never did. I had two names when I was born: the first was Rogrigo.

Until I was 3, I simply couldn’t understand why there was a “D” in my written name. Someday my mother told me that my name wasn’t Rogrigo, but Rodrigo – that was the time when I broke up with that name for good.

My grandma used to call me Boddhi, that was my second name. She used to call my brother Boddhinho (Portuguese for Little Boddhi). For her, we were Boddhi and Little Boddhi.

My brother was too young to pronounce the B, so he called me Udgie – and I grow up as Udgie.

When I was an autistic teenager, my mean classmates named me Archimedes, not as a compliment, but as a joke.

However I liked it, and I took that name to me, getting hold of it, and I bent it, turning into Arĥimedeς. If it’s too hard to say, call me Arh.

My great-great-grandfather was called Gasppar Montini, but, when he arrived in Brazil, he changed the name to Monte Gasppa. Somehow I started to take to that name, and I’m gotten hold of it too, joining it in a single word: Montegasppα.

That’s my name – my real name, the one I call myself: Arĥimedeς Montegasppα.

I’ve been called by a lot of other names: in the technology milieu, people call me Cacilhας. The KCE people used to call me La Batalema (The Brawler, The Tough), and that’s my email address.

This post may seem pointless, perhaps it is. It’s just an outburst – I don’t wanna go without leaving it written.

Also in Medium.