Just call me Leitjea

Everyday, I'm asked about my family back home. I have a recitation I give to every curious Malagasy person. "My mother's name is Dee-ann-ah, my older brother's name is Cam-ehr-ohn, his wife is Tah-MEE and their baby is called Johnn-ee. My younger brother is Cohl-een and my father is Rrroi."
As I recite this little diatribe, it's punctuated by the listener's comments and expressions.
"Dee-ann-ah! Oh, tsara izany! That's a beautiful name!" They say this about everyone in my family, eyes wide with adoration at our exotic, white names.
Then the inevitable, "And what is your name?" I say that my name is Leend-say and their wonder evaporates. Their faces look as though they've been confronted with a calculus problem.
"What is it? What did she say? Luhn-dza? Is that her name?" A taxi brousse driver once wrote a ticket to Leitjea, the strangest mutation to date.
This is a problem I never saw coming. It's my name! What about it presents such an issue? The first group of Malagasy I met, those who trained me and are often around Americans, had no difficulty pronouncing "Lindsay" the same way everyone back home does.
Briefly, my middle name, Nicole, was leaked and for an afternoon I had everyone calling me "Nee-Kohl". I don't really mind, anything's better than white girl, but I've only gone by my first name and didn't feel right about dropping it.
One person, a woman who sells me the bananas I eat for breakfast, has found a solution. Every day when I approach her table she says, loudly, "Mana-oahana Mah-Dear! Hello my dear!" It always makes my day. So much so that I refuse to buy bananas from anyone else.