The professor begins with the usual correct-me-if-I’m-wrong speech and then dives into a list of Megans and Brians.

I’m usually not looking up. I know when they get to me because of the series of events that inevitably plays out.

The professor will pause — and try to mentally put the sounds together. They will tilt their head — they think they have it. Finally, it’s a return to Hooked on Phonics.

“Pe-, Pe-,” they begin. “Petra?”

Always with the same short “e,” should I even let them finish. Often, I just throw my hand up and say it, “Petra,” long “e.” However, if you miss that first correction, there’s no point in acknowledging the mistake in later roll calls and addresses.

So starts another semester.

My name has always been more than just what’s written on my Social Security card. Much as a name is to everyone else, it’s a defining characteristic that can be reduced to a nickname, but never truly abandoned. More than anything, it’s a conversation starter. With age has come maturity on the part of my peers — for the most part.

I inherited my title from my grandmother Petrolina Boich, who was 100 percent Croatian. “Petra” became a nickname that stuck with her, and stuck out to my young mother and father trying to find a way to christen their second born.

I took my other grandmother’s name, Joann, for my middle name, but when it comes to introductions, I never really get beyond the first.

As most kids do, I went through an angst-ridden phase with my name. Not only did attendance become the most annoying part of my day, but the endless line of nicknames and jokes that such a name inspires got a bit wearing.

Most notably, I have been linked to a whiny pterodactyl from “The Land Before Time.” Most unfortunately, I have been called “petri dish.”

I first started to think my name could be cool when I went to Europe. Seeing my name on stationary, keychains and tacky plastic license plates, I suddenly had a flashback to standing in Bronner’s Christmas Wonderland in Frankenmuth in elementary school. I stood looking at all the names of the good boys and girls on Santa Claus’ list painted in delicate white paint on shiny ornaments. They had every name in the world, except for mine. When I returned stateside, carrying a copy of Petra magazine my friends found on a newsstand, I finally started to get it. A label became an identity, a culture, a history to be proud of.

On the contrary, I’ve never wanted to change my name. Everyone has their favorite names, but I could never see myself as anything else. Sure, I joked I would use a pen name of “Peter” to get my career going, but I don’t think I could ever be summed up by any other word. A little bit quirky, a little bit confusing, undeniably me.

My family had a good laugh at my graduation, knowing I had had to write my name out phonetically, “Pee-truh,” to be read at the ceremony, and I still tease my mother I will go by “Pam” when I cross the stage again in May 2009. But these memories are moments I can now look on fondly. Should I have a daughter, will her name be “Petra?” Not sure yet. In the words of my own mother, I will pick one that suits her.

We all have something that makes us unique. Mine just happens to be written in black and white. Along the way I have been “Peaches,” “PJ,” “Pete” and everything in between. Nowadays my sister and best friend call me just “P.” No matter what they call me, I know now that no other word will ever make me more comfortable in my own skin. More importantly, it’s my way of remembering one of the best people in my life and the bond we will always share.

Tell Petra Canan her name is lame at cnanapet@msu.edu.