Starbucks asks for your name because someone in a boardroom decided it would “foster connection.” The barista says your name, you feel seen, you come back tomorrow. Beautiful theory.
In practice, they butcher it.
Unless your name is Mike. Mike collects his flat white with the quiet confidence of a man whose name has never been misspelled. The system was built for Mike.
My name is Shiyan. Two syllables. Not complicated — unless you’ve never seen it, which is everyone at every Starbucks everywhere. I’ve been Shyan. Shayn. Cyan. Shi-Anne. Once, memorably, Sean.
Dale Carnegie understood something Starbucks didn’t: a person’s name is the most important word in the world to them. That’s why you use it — it says “I see you.”
But getting it wrong? Repeatedly? In public? That says “I see someone who is vaguely you but not quite.” Which is worse than not trying.
So I became 47.
The barista doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t ask me to spell it. Just writes it and moves on. “47!” — and I collect my coffee with zero psychic damage.
It’s faster too. No spelling. No “sorry, one more time?” No three-attempt back-and-forth while the line grows. Two digits. Done.
Starbucks should have done this from the start. Numbers. Coffee comes out faster. Nobody gets their identity bruised at 8am. The baristas don’t have to pronounce Siobhan.
Unless your name is Mike. Mike, you’re fine. The rest of us will be over here, properly caffeinated and psychically intact.