Choosing a Name

Most people don’t get a say in their name. Some might end up with ones that perfectly encapsulate their personality, others might end up opting for nicknames and wishing their parents had picked something different. Hardly anyone chooses their own name, yet that's exactly what I did.

The name my parents gave me was Jiaqi. I’m not even going to try to tell you how it’s pronounced, because I’m pretty sure no combination of English letters could get you to say it right. If you’re really curious, you could look it up, but none of my elementary school teachers had YouTube on hand while taking roll call. So naturally, I grew up with teachers pausing before my turn during attendance and classmates resorting to nicknames (and they managed to butcher those too). 

My name broadcasted to everyone I met that I wasn’t from here, with neither an American birth certificate nor American-born parents. So, towards the end of 5th grade, my parents suggested that I choose a more conforming, easier-to-pronounce name—an American name. I was getting a fresh start at a brand-new school, and they wanted me to feel like I fit in and, honestly, just to not have to correct people’s attempts at Chinese pronunciation on a daily basis. So naturally, I picked out Emily—the most boring, overused name that I possibly could have selected out of an unlimited number of options (maybe overcompensating?). We filed the legal forms, attended a court hearing, got my IDs replaced, and then I was ready to waltz into middle school as a brand new person. 

When I arrived for my first day of 6th grade, the difference was obvious. Every previous first day, I faced the “how do you pronounce your names?”s, the “am I saying this right?”s, the “sorry if I get it wrong”s. But this time...nothing. Not a single person asked me how Emily was pronounced. I mean, you couldn’t mess it up if you tried. For once, I was no different from any of my classmates—not the ones with generations of family here, not the ones who took their first breaths here. 

Changing my name wasn’t a big decision. Neither my parents nor I gave much thought to it, the change more of a measure of convenience than anything. I decided I would rather have an “easy” name than one nobody could pronounce, but it recently dawned on me that the swap holds more significance than that. By replacing my Chinese name with an American one, I had basically disregarded part of my background. I chose a name that erased my unique childhood, a part of my identity that I now look back on with a mixture of pride and “hey, isn’t that cool?” I’m proud of being born in Beijing, where we lived until I was three, because it reflects my parent’s success. It’s a symbol of their hard work; in China, not everyone can live in the capital. You can’t just pack your bags and move cities. You had to have citizenship to that city, but neither of my parents were born in Beijing. My mom grew up in Yingkou, which apparently wasn’t as wealthy back then, and my dad was born in Juxian, which was basically a farmer town. (They owned chickens!) They got citizenships to Beijing by working their way through the crazy-competitive education system and getting into college there, then grad school, then post-docs. 

It feels like I lost that unique story along with the name that my parents gave me. A part of my identity got buried in those forms and papers. None of my friends would know that I was born halfway across the world if it hadn’t come up in conversation, because nothing about my name implies that I’m any less American than them. I still appreciate the convenience of having a name that nobody has ever asked me how to pronounce, but I wish I had considered what the change would signify. Or, if nothing else, came up with something a bit more creative than Emily.