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| Source: anglianwater |
(The Guardian)--The Facebook name-pronunciation feature made me realize
that, after a lifetime of code-switching, I want to pronounce my name as my
mother intended
Facebook’s feature allowing
you to choose an
accurate pronunciation of your name for everyone to see (and hear)
seems simple enough. Helpful, even. But I haven’t pronounced my name correctly
in the last 27 years, and I’m afraid to start now.
I introduce myself as a
three syllable SAH-dee-uh, when my name is actually a two-syllable Sa-Dhya,
adapted from a sharper-sounding Arabic name to roll off a softer, Urdu-speaking
palate. The trick is in the D. When I spell out “D as in David” to the Comcast
rep on the phone, what I should be saying is “D as in Theo.”
But I don’t say that.
Pronouncing my name the way my mother intended is more foreign to me now than
the other way around. Here’s the uncomfortable reason why: I’m afraid my name
sounds too ... ethnic. That Sa-Dhya won’t fit in with her mainstream white
American friends and co-workers anymore. That saying my name “the right way”
will somehow negate the fact that I was born in this country and feel more
American than Pakistani.
This ambivalence isn’t new
territory for us third-culture kids. We’ve always had to make adjustments to
fit in. This is especially true when you grow up, as I did, in the suburbs of
northern Virginia in the 1990s. “Saudia Arabia,” said my Gulf War-savvy peers. “Queen
Latifah!” said the kids who happened to watch Living Single after school.
Anglicizing my name so that
it would be easier for white people to pronounce – and harder to mock – just
came with the territory.
The first day of school was
always rough, knowing when the teacher was getting closer to your name during
roll call. The familiar pause before the bungled attempt.
“SAH-dee-uh,” I’d correct
her, incorrectly.
And so began a lifetime of
code-switching. At Starbucks, I enunciate so softly the baristas write any
number of alternatives: Claudia, Saria, Said, Saudiya. If there’s a long line
behind me, I say “Nadia” to save time. When a guy I’m not interested in leans
over in a loud bar or club to ask for my name, I accept whatever version of it
he repeats back. When a white friend tries to say my Urdu name in earnest, I
wince. With family and other desis, I’m ethnic Sadia again.
I’m far from alone in being
a cultural sell-out. South Carolina Governor Nimrata “Nikki” Haley, Louisiana
Governor Piyush “Bobby” Jindal, Mindy Kaling and countless Silicon Valley
engineers from India and China abbreviate or change their names to make it
easier for everyone else.
But I always wonder: if you
can ask for gluten-free, dairy-free everything at a restaurant with a straight
face, why couldn’t you also manage to say my real, ethnic name the same
way my family does?
Because the thing is, I’m
done with code-switching. The older I get, the more important my name, and
names generally, becomes to me. Like drug kingpin Marlo Stanfield from
HBO’s The Wire said when he found out he was losing cred on the streets: “My
name is my name.”
When someone messes up your
name or never bothers to learn the right way to say it, it’s disrespectful.
When, on the other hand, you take the time to get someone’s name right, you
honor them. When you tell yourself that you’re just “bad with names,” you’re
telling others you don’t care to learn more about them. When George Allen lost
his Senate reelection bid in 2006 partly because he called an Indian-American
at a political rally “Macaca,” even non-brown people could read dismissiveness
and disdain into his thoughtless word choice.
I stare again at Facebook’s
suggested pronunciations. I can choose from SAH-dee-uh, SAY-dee-uh, suh-DEE-uh
or write my own. I try writing my own, but the robot lady in the audio clip
never gets it quite right.
So people will just have to
talk to me directly to learn about my name, and what it means. It’s Sadia. D as
in Theo. It means lucky. Sa-Dhya.
By Sadia Latifi
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