Respect the relationship between name and identity.
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Happy Monday!
A couple of weeks ago, we discussed the petition against Trader Joe's and I asked you to submit stories about whether your own name has ever been challenged or questioned. In today's newsletter, Jami explains the relationship between our names and our identities and features stories submitted by our community.
As always, we appreciate any and all contributions. Consider giving one-time on our website or Venmo (@nicoleacardoza), or subscribe for $5/mo on our Patreon.
Nicole
TAKE ACTION
Ask yourself what gut-level judgments you make based on other people’s names.
Make more intentional efforts to pronounce and honor other people’s names.
Learn the names and histories of Black and Indigenous activists and leaders who are alive and fighting—not just the ones who have been murdered.
Support BIPOC activists as they fight to change the names of institutions that honor racist legacies.
GET EDUCATED
By Jami Nakamura Lin (she/her)
In America, many of our institutions, schools, and organizations are named after white men with racist histories and legacies (Education Week). After facing increasing public pressure from activists after the murder of George Floyd, many of these institutions are undergoing a reckoning. Some of the outcomes initially seem positive: Congress now has bipartisan support to remove Confederate names from military bases (New York Times). But an institution’s reluctant willingness to remove a problematic name isn’t the same thing as a willingness to publicly honor and support BIPOC leaders. After years of pressure from its Black students, Louisiana State University Library finally removed the name of its segregationist former university president—but refused to rename it after the school’s first black female Ph.D. graduate, Pinkie Gordon Lane, as petitioners wished (Library Journal).
People who resist these changes often think: what is the big deal? A name is just a name. But names are powerful symbols. For a person of color, a name can be one of the most visible links to our communities and backgrounds—and also a target for racism and discrimination. A 2003 study showed that job applicants with white-sounding names received 50% more responses than those with Black-sounding names (National Bureau of Economic Research). Just a few months ago, a white male professor asked Vietnamese American student Phuc Bui Diem Nguyen to “Anglicize” her name because it sounded offensive in his language (diemquyynh on Instagram). When she refused, he made up a nickname for her; he didn’t back down until her story went viral (New York Times).
Honoring names is especially important in light of the way Black and Indigenous people have had their names and cultural identities forcibly erased by white colonizers throughout their histories. In Liseli Fitzpatrick’s African Names and Naming Practices, she writes: “European colonizers attacked and defiled African names and naming systems to suppress and erase African identity – since names not only aid in the construction of identity but also concretize a people’s collective memory by recording the circumstances of their experiences.” Indigenous lawyer and writer Christina Gray notes: “Renaming has been a critical part of settler colonialism generally, which is predicated on the erasure of Indigenous peoples, including their languages, cultures and social structures — any and all evidence of Indigenous peoples’ living presence,” (Yellowhead Institute).
As a light-skinned Japanese Taiwanese American, my experience with my name is wholly different than those of Black or Indigenous folk. And yet as a child, I too felt shame because of my middle name, Nakamura, one that made me visibly different from the people around me. It wasn’t until I was older that I began to take pride in the ways my names connect me to my family and my history. I have thought long and hard about what my daughter’s name reflects to the world (New York Times).
Our names say that we are here. Our names say that we exist, that we have always existed, even if you haven’t always seen us. And read these powerful stories we received from readers reflecting on their names. Responses have been lightly edited and condensed for space constraints.
My father is Indian, and his name is Rajiv, but after being teased all throughout his school years he decided to go by 'Neil' when he started college, and still uses that name today. He also lost a lot of his ability to speak Hindi because my grandparents were afraid that it would hinder their children's English or their acceptance in America. I'm now teaching myself the language, which got him to attempt to re-learn it too. - Anonymous
When I was born, my parents named me Ángela. But that quickly got Americanized, as whoever did my birth certificate dropped the accent over the first letter of my name. It wasn't until the age of 21 that I decided to reclaim my name: Ángela. Doing so was incredibly empowering because I felt for the first time like my truest authentic self. Some people uplifted said reclaiming my name was honorable and beautiful. Other people did not get it and did not take me seriously. Over time, I've tried to not let those comments and reactions get to me, but to be honest, it still hurts. I hope one day that all changes. -Ángela Mendez
When I came to this country my teachers called me Lah-teef, which as a little girl, I assumed was my American name. I spent 15 years introducing myself that way to folxs. My name is really pronounced Lah-tee-feh. It just demonstrates how impressionable kids are. Had my teacher just asked me how to say my name, I wouldn’t have spent almost so much of my life mispronouncing my own name. -Latiffe Amado
There was one teacher that always mispronounced my name, saying that it "just sounded so much better that way." I never felt like I could correct him myself. The power difference was too great.
-Anonymous
If immigrants from Europe felt the need to "Americanize" or "English-ize" their names in order to be accepted/assimilated into American culture, how much greater that pressure must be for those from other parts of the world. My ancestors chose to change their name in order to separate themselves from the country they left and to start anew in America. That does not give me the right to expect the same from anyone else coming to this country. -Anonymous
My entire family in Thailand calls me a Thai nickname but it's very hard for Americans to pronounce. By pure coincidence, my parents had accidentally given me a Thai name that had an English-sounding name at the beginning of it. So I started going by [that name]. I had heard it would help me be remembered on resumes and at job interviews. My mom was even so worried she asked if I wanted to legally change my name to [the English-sounding name]. But I have legally kept my full name because it's a tribute to where I came from and I don't want to erase that. -Anonymous
My name is Dilpreet, which is pronounced phonetically. It’s written the way it’s said. Yet many times when I say my name, people look at me with complete confusion and annoyance that they have to pronounce such a different name. I made it a habit to give myself a nickname like Dil or DK to make it easier for those who thought my name was too difficult. In college, I finally met classmates who positively reacted to my name and wanted to make sure they were pronouncing it right. I’ve learned that I shouldn’t have to make others feel comfortable to say and understand my name, my identity. Let them say your name. -Dilpreet Kainth
KEY TAKEAWAYS
Take the time to learn how to say our names correctly, even if at first the sounds are difficult for you.
Acknowledge that a name is not just a name— it represents a history and a community.
Understand how the ongoing denial of names connects to our country’s legacy of erasure of Black, Indigenous, and other people of color.
RELATED ISSUES
7/22/2020 | Don't Americanize other cultures.
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