Kuan-lin F. Liu is a third-culture Taiwanese writer, who focuses on issues of race and gender. Connect with him on LinkedIn. The views expressed in this commentary are his own. View more opinion at CNN.
For many of us Asians living in the West, our name is a tricky subject that often makes us feel self-conscious and embarrassed when people try to pronounce it. Growing up attending American international schools around the world, I got used to teachers struggling with my name. There was always the awkward moment on the first day of school during attendance check when a new teacher got to my name on their student list and had to pause before reading it out loud with hesitation.
As a kid, I felt lucky that because I was born in Spain and of the Catholic faith, I had another name, a Western name: Fermín. So, it became routine that as soon as a new teacher was about to get to my name, I would quickly say, “You can call me Fermín.” If they still struggled with pronouncing the Spanish “r” and the accent on the “i,” I would say, “Just go with Fermin (pronounced the American way).” I did not realize until a class on race and gender in college that I had been making myself smaller for the comfort of others.
Kuan-lin F. Liu
When I joined the workforce, I decided that I would go by Kuan-lin. Even though I worked at an English-language newspaper, all my bylines bore my Chinese name and so did my CVs. This small detail was my way of saying that I am proud to be Asian, even though I would still find myself telling people I met in person that they can call me Fermín if they want. Most people would ask me what I prefer, but during an interview at the Hong Kong branch of an American company, something else happened.
I was meeting with a hiring manager, a middle-aged White man, to discuss potentially joining his team. Though we had previously met and corresponded via email, he did not remember my name, nor did I expect him to since it was recruitment season and he had probably met with dozens of candidates by that point. At the start of the interview, he looked down at my CV for a quick reference so he could address me. He looked up and after an attempt at my name asked, “Is there another name you go by?” Naturally, I said, “You can call me Fermín.” His response was “We’re going to have to come up with an easier name for you. How about we call you Fred?”
I am ashamed to say that I did not immediately ask to leave the meeting. Instead, I chuckled awkwardly and tried to move the conversation forward by focusing on the nature of the job. After being offered the job, I turned it down. Needless to say, I could not imagine working with someone who could not be bothered to learn my name because what he was really telling me was that he did not care about who I was as a person.
Unfortunately, this experience is not that uncommon for members of the Asian and Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) communities. We are constantly being asked to anglicize or simplify our names.
For my Indian friends, Kamran becomes Cameron, and Aran becomes Aaron. For my Hong Kong friends, they either have an English name, or they will go by the initials of their given name (i.e. Kuan-lin would be KL). And when neither option works, many Asians will opt to adopt an English name out of convenience. This is not to say that Asians and Asian Americans do not have English names that they are given at birth or that they prefer to use. In fact, many — if not most — of those born in the US probably have an English name as part of their legal name (and to ask if that is their “real name” is very othering).
With the uptick in anti-Asian violence in the US — not to mention the historical racist policies that discriminated against Asian Americans — those unfamiliar with Asian names and cultures may ask what’s wrong with changing a name, and whether a name holds any significance.
Many #StopAsianHate posts on social media list out the names of the eight Atlanta shooting victims — Soon Chung Park, Hyun Jung Grant, Suncha Kim, Yong Ae Yue, Delaina Ashley Yaun, Paul Andre Michels, Xiaojie Tan, and Daoyou Feng — six of whom were Asian women, in an attempt to humanize and commemorate them.
Anticipating the struggle that some people may have in pronouncing Asian-language names, the Asian American Journalists Association has put out a pronunciation guide for the Chinese- and Korean-language names of the six Asian women killed. Similar guides can be found throughout different social media platforms, all with the same intention: to give the victims, especially those who have often been made to feel othered and invisible, the respect they deserve. It may seem like a small gesture, but having our names known and pronounced correctly is something Asians and Asian Americans do not take for granted.
People are free to change their names legally, but in many Asian cultures, one’s name and the intended meaning behind it is believed to determine, or at least influence, one’s fortune. This is especially the case for the Chinese and Korean cultures, to which the six Asian women killed in the Atlanta shootings belonged.
Naming a child in a Chinese or Korean household usually does not take place without at least one trip to a fortune teller and a series of long discussions with family elders. So, even if one does not believe in a name’s power, one should at least appreciate its cultural and personal significance.
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To ask or make people feel that they need to change their names is an example of the erasure of culture and identity that continues to plague the AAPI population in the US to this day. In the wake of so much anti-Asian violence, many Asian Americans on social media are showing support and pride by reclaiming their “other” name, the one that is not in English, and putting it in their profiles.
Like with any group, each person of Asian descent will have a unique preference when it comes to their name. Some of us may like to go by our Asian names, while others may prefer English names or something completely different. The key to being respectful and being an ally is to ask how we would like to be addressed. When we tell you, please call us by that name.
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