Three Letter Names are a Struggle

When I was 12, my parents earned their citizenship. I remember them staying up late after working two jobs each, studying for the American history exam. I had to quiz them with questions like

"What year was the declaration of independence signed?"

or

"Who was the 3rd President of the United States of America?"

As if their worth in this country was predicated on memorizing the year a piece of paper was ratified. Or the name of some man that my parents couldn't pronounce properly because of the way the r's got stuck in their tongues and the fact that the letter j doesn't exist in Vietnamese.

It was a proud day when they got their citizenship. I recorded it on one of those chunky camcorders. My parents probably still have VHS of it somewhere. The judge read them their rights as citizens, had everyone individually swear upon a Bible (I'm not touching that one), and congratulated them on their achievement.

Then came the paperwork. My parents had to fill out all new documents that proved our "new" shiny American identities. Luckily, I was still under 18 so I just got to go along for the ride. Naturalization my parents called it. I got to be naturalized because I was their child. No dumb quizzes for me!

As they were filling out their paperwork, my parents began to discuss their new names. What were they going to be called in English? As if Kim and Bao were so difficult to say, my 12 year old self thought (ahh to be 12 and blissfully unaware of racism).

They settled on Christina and Anthony. Three letter names turned into three syllables names. Names that didn't ring true to me. Those weren't the names of my parents. They were the names my parents had given themselves to insulate them and their families from the strange way people looked at their names when filling out job applications. Or the way their mouths twisted to the side when they tried to pronounce my fathers name with something they thought resembled a Vietnamese accent.

So my parents turned to me. Me? Yes, me. What name did I want? What did I want to be called for the rest of my life? What name should we put on your social security card marking you as a citizen of the America: The Land of the Free? What name should people see when I fill out university applications, scholarship applications, job applications, mortgage loans, car loans, and every other legal document for the rest of my life?

You see, even at 12, I had already grown into somewhat of a rebel. Anything other people did, my oppositional defiance demon said DO IT THE OTHER WAY. So I told my parents "Just Duy. I don't want my name changed"

You know, I could have been a David. We had to choose Spanish names once in 7th grade. I chose Guillermo. I was Guillermo for 50minutes a day for a year. That was cute, I guess.

Sometimes I wonder what opportunities have may have missed out on because people just chose not to bother learning how to pronounce my name. Or passed on my application because it was too foreign.

But then I remember. I really don't give a single. Solitary. Fuck.

Because you know what my name means? The word Duy, part of the phrase "Duy Nhất" means to be the only one. As in, there is only one of me. Completely unique and completely not here to simplify my name for the sake of assimilation.

Every time, someone pronounces my name wrong or asks me how to pronounce my name. I teach them. Because I have an incredible amount of pride in what my name represents. It represents decades of living as an authentic Vietnamese-American person without apologizing for the way my name makes other people uncomfortable. It means educating people so that, in the future, if they see a child with the same name, that child doesn't have to experience that ache in their heart when people see their name and go "Die? That's how you pronounce it right?"