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I have heard this name more during the past few weeks than at any other time in my life, which is strange, because it’s my name.

At work, I sit across from <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/people/emily-yahr/" target=_blank>Emily Yahr</a>, the nation’s leading chronicler of Taylor Swift. On my left is the sports department.

The <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/style/of-interest/2024/02/01/taylor-swift-travis-kelce-details/?itid=ap_emilyyahr" target=_blank>Taylor Swift-Travis Kelce relationship</a> has captivated (or infuriated) much of America. It has been my own personal hell.

It started as a trickle. I’d overhear, “Did you hear about Travis and Taylor?” Wait, what about me? I don’t even think I know a Taylor.

Now, it’s a flood. Do you know how many times I turn my head because I think someone’s addressing me?

No one is ever talking about me. Or about any of the other Travises. (Travii?)

They are talking about the One True Travis, a tight end with the Kansas City Chiefs who is one half of the center of the universe.

Style is where The Washington Post covers happenings on the front lines of culture and what it all means, including the arts, media, social trends, politics and yes, fashion, all told with personality and deep reporting. For more Style stories, <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/style/" target=_blank>click here</a>.

I didn’t realize what a privilege it is to have an uncommon name. To the Karens and Chads and Monicas and Alexas and, yes, Taylors: I now understand what it’s like to have your name co-opted by a culture you don’t (or don’t want to) understand.

You have to understand how few Travises there are in my life. There is another at The Washington Post, Travis Lyles. I occasionally receive messages meant for him.

Travis Lyles had a high school best friend named Travis. “People would often call us ‘the Travises,’ because we were the only two in our orbit,” he says. “Other than him, I never really knew anyone else with the name. Until … I came to The Washington Post.”

Wait! Hold the presses! There’s at least one more Travis at The Post, who saw this piece in our editing system and reached out: Travis Meier, editor for Post Opinions. Like me, he enjoys that our “name is of a rare breed,” and he is sick of the constant “travesty” jokes. He once got a “charitable chuckle” from the One True Travis, when he met him and said: “Hi, Travis. I’m Travis.”

“Travis” has been declining in American popularity since it peaked in 1979 as the 36th-most-popular baby name for boys, with 11,046 crying Travises sliding into the world, according to <a href="https://www.ssa.gov/cgi-bin/babyname.cgi" target=_blank>the Social Security Administration</a>.

Why? Maybe it was the rise in popularity of Austin (Travis County), which nearly doubled in population between 1960 and 1980, and began rivaling Nashville as a countercultural country-and-rock music hub in the early 1970s. Maybe it was John D. MacDonald’s Travis McGee mystery novels, which published from the early ’60s to the early ’80s, mirroring the rise of Travis. Maybe some parents really liked 1976’s “Taxi Driver,” and Troubled Loner Travis, played by Robert De Niro.

Last year, “Travis” ranked at No. 383 on the same list. Only 842 Travii joined our legion.

We’re edging toward extinction — unless all the Swifties start naming their children after the One True Travis. But extinction would be okay. Because this whole Travis Kelce situation hasn’t only given me a new crick in my neck. It’s also eroding my identity.

And until a few weeks ago, I liked Travis! Sure, it’s not the flashiest name, but it’s sturdy. Matthew means “gift of God.” David means “beloved.” Muhammad means “praiseworthy.”

But I embraced it. In college, I made a T-shirt that featured the outline of the United States of America with an all-caps “TRAVIS!” embroidered inside of it. Back in <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/style/of-interest/2024/02/02/facebook-20th-anniversary-2004/" target=_blank>the days of old Facebook</a>, I was in a group of people named Travis. We vowed to one day meet on the banks of Lake Travis, in Travis County, Tex.

I was removed when I changed my Facebook name to “Metairie’s Finest,” a reference to the New Orleans suburb I’m from. (I was 19. So sue me.) The group, sadly, no longer appears to exist. But us Travises still do. There is still a group titled “My name is TRAVIS not Trevor,” but that’s a subject for a different time.

There are other Travises. But not globally famous ones! I mean, who you got? Travis Tritt? Randy Travis?

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Sure, there’s the occasional Travis Barker or Travis Scott, but the list falls off fast. I’m still getting over an album by the ’90s Britpop band Travis briefly breaking into the Billboard Top 40 and giving me a year-long headache. Never did I think I’d be jealous of my brother, Tyler, who gets the occasional Tyler, the Creator joke.

Does it help that the One True Travis is a 6-foot-5, 250-pound slab of male marble, and I, well, am not? No, it doesn’t.

Does it help that the One True Travis is worth about $40 million, and I, well, am not? No, it doesn’t.

I have never rooted against a team as much as the Kansas City Chiefs. Not the Atlanta Falcons, as a Saints fan. Not the University of Alabama, as an LSU alum. Not the Blue Barracudas on “Legends of the Hidden Temple,” as a Silver Snakes fan.

Petty? Of course. Jealous? Why wouldn’t I be?

Lately I find myself staring directly into the abyss: What if they break up? What if she uses his name in a song?

Because He's Jeff Goldblum

LSU, BA in English and Film

Travis M. Andrews is a feature writer for The Washington Post. He is also the author of "Because He's Jeff Goldblum," a rumination on the enigmatic actor's career and an exploration of fame in the 21st century. He joined The Post in 2016.

Travis Andrews

Taylor Swift dating Travis Kelce is a problem for Travises everywhere!

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