It’s situations like this that make me dread introducing myself. What happens next is always predictable and embarrassing.

Not for me, but for the other person. And if it isn’t, it really should be.

First, my last name is frequently and horribly butchered. Instead of the French “pwa-s-son” pronunciation — without the super-nasally accent used to mock the French — I’m usually branded with the Americanized “p-oy-s-on” — slightly acceptable — simply “poison” or some other ridiculous variation.

And of course, after a second or two after this already-botched first impression, the origin of this name visibly begins to dawn on people.

Now, this is a real turning point in the introduction — they can realize the name’s significance and move on or they can bring it up in hopes that it makes a good icebreaker.

Most people fail on both accounts. How could they resist something so unique and possibly the only correct answer they had on that high school French quiz?

Every time, I have to brace for impact. I try to muster as much politeness as I can when people start to openly marvel at my unusual name in what most often comes out as a “hyuck-hyuck-I’m-so-clever” tone. This is when you’ll see my signature look of contempt — a subtly blend of an “I hate you” glare and a fake smile.

Because, of course, 21 years of “Did you know your name means ‘fish?’” never gets old.

Anyone with an unusual, multisyllable name has probably had to deal with some degree of mangling. It’s annoying, though I’m not sure those who mispronounce entirely understand why.

Because even now, I anticipate people will throw out the line written by poet William Shakespeare in “Romeo and Juliet”: A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Although that’s true, a name still has a certain amount of significance.

It’s not a matter of hating my name. I adore being “Lindsey Poisson.” Said correctly, it’s strong, sexy and classic (at least to me, someone who has heard it for 21 years).

Names are naturally personal. They are part of our identity. There are years worth of experiences and characteristics that many people associate with an individual’s name. If all those factors happen to be pleasant, then a name — that identity — is probably a source of great pride or power.

I imagine that’s why many parents choose to pass down family names to sons or daughters. A continuance of that name could mean a continuance of that identity.

But when one individual, not taking any of this into account, nonchalantly mangles another’s name, therein lies the problem. They are, essentially, disrespecting someone’s identity.

Everything is doomed after that. It sets a pall over the whole interaction — some people visibly shut down after that.

For people who are hoping to have careers that revolve around meeting people, this is a very real possibility. In my line of work, where I depend on these people for information, correctly saying names is especially crucial.

After all, I tend not to want to chat with people who call me “poison.”

Because I’m so optimistic, I’m sure people would gladly try to avoid such blunders if they only knew how. It’s impossible to instantaneously know the exact pronunciation of every name, and people might not know how to approach a situation where this becomes a factor. I suspect people might feel stupid asking.

But believe me, it’s more stupid not to ask. Just admit not knowing — humility will be your salvation. Asking people to confirm how their name is pronounced is the most courteous thing to do.

In my case, anyone who’s upfront about it right from the get-go already has my respect.

I have no problem teaching people how to say my name if I know they’re willing to make the effort.

But I’m still grappling with what to do about people who insist on hauling out their rusty French to translate my last name.

Now that I think about it, just call me “Lindsey.”

Lindsey Poisson is the State News opinion writer. Reach her at poisson4@msu.edu.