I always knew when my name was next on the attendance roll call, not just because they were typically alphabetical, but because mine always prompted a pause, a look of confusion, then an almost inevitable mispronunciation, sometimes of epic proportions. Through grade school, this became a fact of life, so much so that I would often just raise my hand and say “here” as soon as the pause came—usually in an effort to prevent the occasional chuckles that would come from my young classmates.
Growing up, I quite honestly hated my name. It was the thing that made me stand out when all I wanted, as any kid did, was to blend in. And as we all know too well, kids can be brutal. For this reason and a few others, I, like many others of diverse backgrounds, embraced the Americanized version of my name relatively early on.
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