Anonymous

In grad school, I got a pink and white canvas bag with my name stitched in hot pink and job title printed in neon green on the side. Cute, girlie, monogrammed – definitely, a southern thing.

People complimented the bag back home. But, then again, people at home exude southern warmth and charm. Chances are slim that they’ll mug me during my morning commute, steal my bag, and then use the monogrammed information to steal my identity.

The bag, I finally decided, is not for New York City. I’ve realized that announcing my name and occupation to random strangers on my trek to work is not good.

I used it for the first time on Monday. I slung it over my shoulder as I walked out the door. I fiddled with the volume on my IPod and walked past a group of men. One whistled and then loudly said, “Good morning, sweet _________ (insert my first name here along with several other descriptive, yet moderately sensual adjectives).” Not so good.

On Tuesday, I squished onto the bus in Harlem. The bag sat on my lap, my name and occupation boldly faced outward. The hot pink print sparkled in the morning sun amid the sea of black and brown bags. A female voice a couple of seats down, apparently not dazzled, grumbled “What the #!@$ is an SLP?” Not so good again.

On Thursday, I swiped my metro card at the subway turnstile and jetted down the stairs to catch the train. As I hopped down the last step, I dodged a homeless man on the corner who personalized his request. “Money, money… I need money, ___________ (once again, my first name).”

Everyone from pervy construction workers to grumpy women to homeless men knew me by name. So much for anonymity in the city.