Your name is not too difficult – it’s a story, a legacy, a revolution waiting and deserving to be spoken.
I think I was eight years old the first time I realized my name could be a problem – or at least an
inconvenience for those who found it too difficult to pronounce. As autumn painted the trees in hues of
auburn, brown, and gold, the school year would begin. And with it came the quiet dread that returned,
every year. A new year meant a new grade. A new grade meant a new teacher. And a new teacher meant,
inevitably, the mispronunciation of my name. The hesitant pause. The fumble. Then the ripple of quiet
giggles from classmates who already knew how to say it. My cheeks would burn, heat creeping up my
neck as I sank into my seat, small and unseen except for that single moment of exposure. Even now, more
than a decade later, I can recall the feeling with painful and embarrassing clarity. Back then, I didn’t have the words for it. But now, I do. In the most dramatic – yet truest – way possible, it was the slow erosion of my identity.
Like so many young South Asian students, I quickly learned that my name – something so carefully and lovingly chosen by my grandmother, carrying generations of meaning entwined within our religion – was an inconvenience. It was difficult, maybe a mouthful. Eventually, as I got older, I would offer easier, shortened, westernized versions of my name, something that was digestible for English tongues. Even if it meant brushing away the deep significance of my name. My mother always told me “never simplify your name, because it is written in our holy book with purpose, and carries something sacred” . She was right. Something so personal is not meant to be broken down for another’s convenience. It’s an unfair price to pay to feel a sense of belonging. For so long I carried this simplified version of myself in my back pocket, offering it to anyone who hesitated at the syllables that formed Suhavi.
Our names are more than words; they’re legacies, stories, and echoes of our ancestors. They act as personal treasures from our heritage and the love and care of the families who gave it to us. For immigrant parents, naming their children serves as an avenue of hope and resistance. It’s a precious way to tether their children to their rich, regal histories and the homes they left behind. However, for many of us who have grown up abroad in Western institutions, our names become embarrassing societal burdens as opposed to gifts we are meant to cherish. The act of altering, shortening, or erasing parts of our names to make them easier for others is an unfortunate reality for many first- and second-generation immigrants.
Beyond personal experiences, there is a greater systemic issue at play. The expectation that ethnic names should be modified to accommodate a predominantly Western audience reinforces an imbalanced power dynamic – one where assimilation is expected and cultural diversity is deemed secondary. This isn’t just about names; it is about the way institutions perceive and treat cultural differences. The casual dismissal of our names reflects a broader unwillingness to engage with identities that do not conform to Western norms. The choice to reclaim our names is not an easy one; it’s a commitment that requires us to consistently replace the burning embarrassment with strength that may be difficult to find. It takes courage to correct professors and classmates, to resist the urge to accommodate at the expense of our identity. But every time we insist on the right pronunciation, we are asserting our existence, making space for our cultures in places that once erased them. When someone stumbles over my name now, I no longer feel small. I confidently repeat myself as many times as needed, and I feel assertive in a beautiful and true way. If I want to feel seen, then I will make that happen myself.
Being in university means we have the grace for self-discovery and learn not just from textbooks, but from the diverse world around us. As students, we have so much power to create spaces of acceptance and community, especially with the rich cultures all around us. We can ask our peers how to say their names as we are all linked with the understanding that our names are a reflection of something much deeper. I wrote this article because I wish someone had told me, all those years ago, that my name was beautiful. That it deserved to be said with respect, not reluctance. And that by embracing it fully, I was embracing myself. I wish someone had reassured me that honoring my full name wasn’t an inconvenience, but an act of resistance against erasure.
To every South Asian student who has ever hesitated before introducing themselves: your name is not an inconvenience. It is a testament to where you come from, a bridge to those who walked before you. Speak it proudly, and let the world learn to say it right.