Hi. My name is Paola Liendo. I was named after my great uncle Paolo, and I always took pride in that because it always made me feel closer to my mother and my heritage. Since leaving her home in Aguascalientes, Mexico to live in Laredo, Texas with my father, my mother has only been able to visit her hometown for short periods. I like to think that my name is a reminder of where she’s from—of the family and culture she left behind when she came to the United States and (eventually) had me. It’s a small reminder, but my name has always been deeply tied to my sense of identity. I grew up in a town where almost everyone knew how to pronounce my name, and those who didn’t learned quickly. When I got to Gambier, though, I realized that it was actually rare to find someone who did pronounce my name correctly. I want to get something straight: I do not think you’re getting my name wrong because you lack some sort of “genuine” accent. But I find it genuinely upsetting that people at Kenyon can say my name correctly if they simply decide that they care to. I explained it to my friend Kristen one day like this: the mistake everyone makes here is that they give my name two syllables when it’s actually split into three. It’s Pah-oh-la more than it is Pow-luh, but people attribute their “inability” to pronounce my name to imaginary language barrier. I know this language barrier isn’t the problem because my friend Kristen took my words into consideration and she usually gets my name right—even though she’s super white and from Tennessee. I also know that white students at Kenyon are pretty familiar with the name Viola; the only difference between Viola and Paola is the first syllable. Substitute Vi for Pah and we’re on the same page. Congratulations! You’ve learned how to say my name!
Unfortunately, the problem doesn’t end there. I’ve seen it happen to other minority students on campus: people get their names wrong so consistently that they are left with two options. The first is to maintain a sense of dignity by correcting people over and over again, until they seem to get it (at the risk, then, of seeming pushy or unreasonable). The second, which I see too often, is to not ask non-minority students to get their names right at all. Living in Gambier (and by extension, visiting Mount Vernon regularly), it is easy to adopt the anglicized version of one’s name and to start introducing oneself that way. If I pick up a pizza in Mount Vernon, or introduce myself in class at the beginning of the semester, I’m tired enough that I start introducing myself as Pow-luh, because I know it will make the lives of other people easier. But I don’t want to do that anymore. I’m tired of being tired, and I don’t think that it’s my responsibility to correct every person I meet at Kenyon when they pronounce my name wrong. I feel uncomfortable writing this, but I feel that at times, Kenyon students like to boast about inclusivity and an acknowledgment of privilege without actually putting in the work that goes into understanding these daily issues. I’m not naïve enough to think that minority students are the only ones who have difficult names to pronounce. I do think, however, that this is a problem minority students on campus face pretty often. I think that the constant slight of not hearing our names, in particular, stings because it serves as a reminder of just how different we naturally are from other students at Kenyon.
The first time I heard a professor in the Spanish department say my name correctly this semester, I almost cried. It’s incredibly disheartening to hear your name not spoken as it should be. Not hearing mine made me feel separate from my heritage, and it made me miss my family more than usual. It made me feel less worthy than other students at Kenyon, like a constant reminder that most of the students around me are much more equipped to be here than I am.I recognize that I’m privileged in comparison to a lot of people, the least of which being the students who change their name completely to fit American culture or who change their name to match their pronouns only to have people ignore or trample on those names. Kenyon is a very liberal school, but it is not without fault or prejudice or misguidance. I have been lenient in cases where my own name is misused, but I refused to stand by as it happens to someone else. I hope my peers share this sentiment.
I want every person on this campus to feel respected, so I let it go when my name is said incorrectly and I work on what is deemed more important—unity and group work and discussion. I guess I just wish that some members of our student body showed the same desire for mutual respect. And really, if we can’t get each other’s names right… how are we really expected to move forward?