Names We Use
On carrying a weight I couldn’t name
(Voice over done by me.)
Let the foreigners learn to pronounce our names.
I will never forget what my Vietnamese friend from college told me. I had asked him why he didn’t use a Western nickname, like most in our circle and myself — young Vietnamese coming to Europe for higher education. He had told me, matter-of-factly, that he had no reason to hide his name.
Something stirred in me — an aching sensation that straddles guilt and shame.
I didn’t like the awkwardness that pricked my skin whenever I introduced myself to a non-Vietnamese person. So I was happy to use a Western name when I started college abroad.
Yet, there was always a subtle startle when I heard someone refer to me using my new name. I always had to remember — it was me they wanted to talk to. But it did not feel exactly like me. Even so, it seemed like a small price to pay to fit in.
It had felt weightless choosing another name, a matter of practicality, no more than calling a chair, a chair. I did not know I was deciding on a shape to hold for the years to come.
In Vietnam, it was said, the real name held the soul of a person. A child would usually have an ‘ugly’ nickname, to protect them from the evil spirits who wished to steal their soul. My family has always called me by my nickname Bé, which came about because I was small as a child.
I never thought much of it until I started looking for a student job. I learned of friends who had changed their name legally, to make sure they have a better chance at a good job.
It works. A study from Harvard Business School found that minority applicants who whitened their resumes were more than twice as likely to get a callback. The shrinking is measurable. You can put a number on it.
But how do you put a number on what you lost?
By now, it had started to feel tiring to wear a double identity. Names had started to feel less like a label. I had started to want to own mine, to keep it close like the heirloom gold necklace my mom gave me. I couldn’t fully explain why, but it had started to feel important.
I wanted the foreigners to learn to pronounce my name, but could I afford to show my roots without hurting my chance at the life I had wanted? I wanted to believe that people would look beyond a label to the person behind it. But more deeply, I wanted to show the pride in who I was.
When I started using my real name again, I was stupidly nervous — I had been someone else for so long. It felt as if I was being stripped naked. What if they would stumble, or ask me to repeat it, or quietly decide something about me?
The person didn’t show any surprise. They just continued talking.
That was all. It was almost anticlimactic. But I felt like a breath held back for years just got released. The air felt fresh and sweet, like victory — against the shame I carried.
I made friends who knew my real name. They made me repeat it many times to learn to pronounce it correctly. They learned about my nickname and were baffled why I used it. It warmed me when they spoke my name with excitement, calling me to join dinners, holding me when I cried. I couldn’t love their presence more.
Being known was a heavy intimacy I did not know existed.
I remember it like yesterday, when I first heard my name rolling sweetly off a tongue, in a whisper of love. My body reverberated with excitement, tasting a honest desire to peek into the depths inside me. It wrapped me in something soft yet firm, something akin to power. No pride nor shame this time, just a feeling of wholeness.
I did not know it was possible for my heart to expand so vastly. I felt tears prickling behind my eyes. It was not love that filled me, but gratitude. There was a hollow in me I didn’t notice. Perhaps my ancestors were right — our real name does hold the door to our soul.
I thought this was the end of this story. It took me years to understand what I had tried to protect.
When I got married, there was a question of changing my last name, per Dutch tradition. I insisted on keeping my last name, per Vietnamese tradition. I had lost my name once and I did not want to lose it again.
My husband was surprised, but also not. He thought it was about showing we were a family. But he understood. He joked that he should take my last name, but then said that would probably make it difficult to get new jobs.
I didn’t laugh, for it was not a joke but a painful truth.
The real weight of it only became clear to me when a name had to be chosen for my future child. I researched and pondered for months. The names were no longer just strings of syllables — they were fountains of feelings. I felt I was to decide the fate of my unborn child (even though I did not believe in fate).
How do you convey all of your love for a child in a single word? And even harder, the full history he carries from us, from our parents and grandparents, from the two cultures that have birthed and raised his parents?
Four years later. My son hates it when he is called by names other than his given name. I find it almost impossible to believe how well it fits him. Its sound on my tongue carries exactly who and what he is — just perfect as it is.
Recently, I was in an expats’ workshop where I had to talk to others about our names. Everyone had something to say, some people told great stories from their parents. I listened intently, not without envy.
I asked a Persian participant what the meaning of his name was. He shrugged, “Some old heroes”, then told me he hated his name because it was Arabic, and he preferred a Persian name. My eyes went wide. An old ache throbbed in my heart. I imagined him as a child, his name meaning nothing yet — and then growing into someone who understood the weight of it.
He disliked his name because it didn’t align with his cultural identity. I hid mine because I was afraid others couldn’t hold it. We both carried names which did not fit our shape.
I considered telling my story but held off. It felt almost wrong to intrude on a history that was not mine. I did not know where to begin, and did not have the words for what I carried.
I shrugged and told him I understood. I told him my parents came up with my name because they liked it.
We both laughed. But I was sure he could feel my ache, just as I could see the heaviness on his hunched shoulders.
Let the foreigners learn to pronounce our names.
I understand now — it was not about the name. It was about the identity the name was meant to hold, and whether you were living with it or against it.
I thought my Western name was a protective mask, just as my childhood nickname warded off spirits. It turned out to be a thin cover for my shame — the door I left open for my soul to walk out.
I was the foreigner most places I lived. But everyone else is foreign upon my ground. If they want the intimacy of knowing me, they will stay.
If you want to support me — a coffee genuinely makes a difference. So does leaving a comment, or sharing this with someone it might reach.
If you liked this, this goes deeper:
Hmm, thanks for touching on this uncommon topic Tee Dee. I floated to your post while I was reading someone else's posts for healing from trauma as a woman. Being a marketing graduate, I could give you the business perspective of names based on consumer behaviour. It's usual for cultures to have stereotypes and tend to accept their own types of names. Even though our given names carry weight, ancestral memories of hundreds of years of stories and unique emotions (the novel: roots), foreigners wouldn't always immediately identify the feelings associated with the original names. Once you make friends in a new culture and tell them who you are "according to their map of the world", and they accept it, you have a stage and a mike. Then, you can slowly unravel your story and real name. In other words, our odd-sounding real names carry value to foreigners when we improve their lives somehow and they feel it. An in interesting point is that what can't be discussed in 1 culture can be approached openly in another, this may ease a name-changer's burden!
A great read, and I feel the pain and weight you carry. Thank you for sharing this well-captured raw, deep, visceral truth and introspective takes! Names are so personal, and meaningful too; and attached to international stories.
When I came to North America, I saw a lot of Chinese changed their names, I mean first name. It was a conflicting choice for me: While considering maybe I should change mine so to make it easier for people to pronounce, I also want to keep my name. So, I did some observations and little surveys around, and plus, injected a small dose of my sense of humor to help it. Just to see how it went. It turned out that most people didn’t have much trouble with pronunciation, and thankfully, a few people even suggested helpful ways to keep my name as it is. Of course, I changed my last name after I got married, but as a hyphenated one, rather than a complete substitution.
Talking about my experience, I’m grateful to my parents for my name, and to people who helped keep it.