What's your real name?
and the more they questioned my name, the more I questioned my identity.
I remember loving my name the moment I was old enough to know that it was mine.
The melodic flow of syllables sounded elegant from my lips, as I struggled to transition from speaking Korean to English, 'Ma-ree-ah' was the perfect bridge to flex my tongue in new waters.
But not long after I fell in love with learning how to express the first piece of me, strangers began to question me: "No, no, what's your real name?"
Young and confused at 7 years old, I’d continue to repeat my name, playing around with different accents because I worried I was pronouncing it wrong.
“Don’t you have an Asian name?” They’d press, insisting on a different answer because they didn’t understand the one that was offered.
“I have a Korean one,” I’d quietly stutter.
“Well, what is it?”
Not only did they demand new information, but back then (and still now) it was intimate information that only my family used. But I’d eventually give in, hoping that sharing this foreign name with strangers will serve as a ticket for them to see me, to accept me.
“Tae-yuhn.”
Where I hoped would be revel, awe, and gratitude, there was taunting, laughter, and humiliation.
From butchering my name and yelling incoherent strings of Asian-sounding words (you know what I’m talking about), the kids were relentless.
And the more they questioned my name, the more I questioned my identity.
However, it was a good lesson learned early on, and I became adept at weaving and bobbing questions–questions produced out of self-interest, demanding newly-edited information, as if the answer I offered wasn’t enough or challenged their limited knowledge.
So I kept my Korean name to myself, laughed along with their jokes, and spent future years honing answers that felt safe–for me, and for them.
As a child, I was confused by this question but as I grew older, I just became increasingly annoyed and aggressively sarcastic when the question was asked based on assumptions.
I had the most fun at bars after tossing back shots of Jameson made me bolder and guys dumber.
"How did an Asian chick end up with a name like 'Maria'?" they'd ask, slurring their words and rolling their 'r's as if they made up a new joke they had to share with me.
"I was named after Kim Jong Il, but it was hard making friends and I thought Maria sounded prettier."
I was rewarded with awkward laughs and feeble attempts to change the conversation, and I thoroughly enjoyed watching them squirm and mentally plan their escape, while I thought about the audacity of people asking questions as a favor for them, rather than trying to actually get to know you.
It's the privilege of (mostly White) Americans who will unintentionally perceive me, an Asian-American, a Korean-American, an "Other-American."
The first descriptor will explain my physical appearance and where I’m “really from,” while the second one validates my presence in this country, but what I didn’t realize until later was that this was a way for them to try and connect with anyone (or thing) that was new and novel.
But this longing to connect is universal.
Looking back on those interactions, I can finally pull on the thread of themes–the bane of ignorance, the desire to relate, and neglected insecurities–and honestly, I totally get it.
I guess I’d be confused if I met a Korean named Juanita, but I’d be more like “Damn, that probably has a really good story.”
A lot of Koreans changed their given names into easier-to-pronounce English names so they could better assimilate into American culture and society. Some even changed theirs during their school days so their teachers and classmates could feel more comfortable (which I think set a terrible standard of coddling and catering, but more on that later).
Ever since the Korean War, the first introduction to English names for many Korean families began with the Bible, which is why you’ll meet a ton of Pauls, Daniels, and Sarahs (shoutout to my cousins).
In my case, my parents went for the big one: the Virgin Mary. In Korean, Mary is translated into ‘Ma-ree-ah.’
And although Maria is my given, legal, government name, I never stopped wondering why people were so adamant on defining what “real” meant. Just because others have chosen their names, does it make them less “real?”
Learning a new language is tough (no shit), but having to continuously dilute your identity and edit your expressions is even harder. After days, months, and even years, you begin to wonder what pieces of yourself remain true, and which ones were replaced.
Unless you grew up in a culturally diverse or immigrant family, this will be hard for you to understand.
But the thing is… that’s okay.
In fact, that is great.
We should want to surround ourselves with people, ideas, and experiences that differ from ours.
And we should accept the fact that we won’t truly understand where they’re coming from, but the least we can do is receive and respect what they’re sharing, and learn from it.
In today’s careful culture, newly-made friends will ask me out of polite curiosity:
”What’s your middle name?”
I don’t have one.
I loved reading this! This will go down in history as one of my favorite quotes: "I had the most fun at bars after tossing back shots of Jameson made me bolder and guys dumber."
What a read! The beginning, ending and everything in between stirred up all the rainbows of emotions for me. My defence mechanism has detached my names from my identity. My father in law calls me Victoria because he assumed Vicky was short for Victoria. It isn't, but not a bad idea. I'd love to be a grandma Victoria when I'm old - sounds posh