By November, my English got good enough and I could understand almost everything at school. One of those things was that my name was useless. No one could pronounce ‘Rodion’ correctly, and it was quickly shortened to Rod. I hated it with a passion and complained about it at home.

“You know, some kids pick new names when they come to America.” Papa announced one evening. We were in the kitchen, Mama, Papa and I, and I’d just finished my plate of mac and cheese, a dish Papa ensured us all was what American kids ate. Papa was eating soup. He put his spoon down and looked at me critically.

“Maybe Rodion can change his name? I’m sick of hearing his complaints.”

“What?” A loud clank followed. Mama had been collecting silverware from the table, and some of the pieces dropped to the floor.

“It’s not such a big deal. If my name weren’t universal, I would have changed it a long time ago. We all need to adapt.” Papa rolled his eyes. “Is there any soup left?” He looked to the stove.

“But Rodion was named after his grandfather.” Mama walked over to me and kissed the top of my head in a protective gesture.

“Rodion, do you want a new name?” Papa turned to me. “Why don’t you think of a nice new name for yourself. It can start with an R.”

“Yes, Papa.” I said. I was a good boy. “Ronald?” I said tentatively.

My five-year-old brain was scanning for names, and the only thing I could think of was Ronald. Ronald McDonald. Papa had taken me to McDonalds twice, and I’d seen the red-haired clown in commercials. If anything, that name was worse than Rodion.

“Oh, no. That’s too much like Reagan.” Papa shook his head. “Is there another name you would like?”

“Philip, it’s too much to ask of Rodion. Let’s talk about this later. Rodion, go spend time with your brother.” Mama gently pushed me out of the kitchen.

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I went upstairs, where Sergei, as usual, was sitting on his bed, playing guitar. Only it wasn’t Tsoi anymore. It was a song I didn’t recognize, and it was beautiful.

“Hey! Listen to this.” Sergei was unusually friendly.

Riders on the storm.

Into this house we’re born.

Into this world we’re thrown.

Like a dog without a bone.

Sergei’s English was the best in the family. He’d studied it in school in Russia, and he pronounced each word carefully.

“It’s this band called The Doors. Riders on the Storm!”

My brother stared dreamily at a distance.

“It’s the last song Jim Morrison ever recorded before he died. He was the lead singer. He was real young, only 27. And philosophical. Heidegger. He’s got the answers. You see, our lives, they’ve got no meaning. That’s what Morrison meant. We’re just thrown into this world and we don’t have answers. You get me, Rodion?”

I was quiet. What could I say?

“This is what everything is about. Random. Throwing us into the world. Like what’s the point? Is there a point? We’re all riders on the storm. You get me?”

I nodded.

“Papa told me I could change my name.” I said after a pause. “So I can be more American.” Sergei shook his head and sighed. He never criticized Papa openly.

We heard a noise of a car pulling up outside. I ran to the window, grateful for the distraction. A truck had stopped in front of our neighbor’s home. It was a yellow truck with huge red letters.

R-Y-D-E-R

I read out the letters. I had just finished learning the alphabet at school and was learning to read.

R-Y-D-E-R

“Ryder!” I yelped in excitement. “Look! Ryder!”

“What are you talking about?” Sergei put the guitar down and walked up to stand next to me.

“Ryders on the storm! I wanna be called Ryder!” I jumped up and down. “My name!” Without waiting for Sergei’s reaction, I ran downstairs and announced my decision to my parents.

“Mama! Papa! I wanna be called Ryder. Like the truck.”

“What truck?” Mama opened her eyes wide.

“Nice! Ryder has a nice ring to it.” Papa smiled at me with approval.

“Yes, come look!” I pulled Mama by the sleeve to the window and pointed at the truck. “See?”

“Rodion, we’ll let the school know tomorrow.” Papa gave me a high-five.

“Philip, you can’t let him be named after a truck! That’s his whole identity. This is a serious decision…” Mama was speaking, but Papa and I weren’t listening.

Papa picked me up and spun me, as we both chanted: “Ry-der! Ry-der! Ry-der!”

From that day onwards, I would be known as Ryder Likharev.