A childhood photo of the writer.
A childhood photo of the writer.

In the first or second grade, the principal mangled my last name during an academic-achievement award ceremony. I marched up in front of the school and announced, “It’s Hua! Not Hoo-aah.” Everyone laughed — even the principal — and I took my seat, pleased as a sassy kid in a television sitcom.

 

At the next ceremony, the principal mispronounced my name again. I corrected her — as I thought I was allowed to, as I thought I should. No one at school had told me otherwise, but this time, she turned me away.

 

I surely must have sunk into fear, shame and confusion, but the next moment I could remember was sitting in her office. “Correcting people isn’t nice,” she said. She handed me my award and shook my hand. She didn’t explain how and when I — a lowly kid — could have told her.

People mispronounced her name all the time, she said. Her message was clear: Don’t make a fuss. I wasn’t trying to be rude, but if the principal wouldn’t take the time to learn my last name — the name of my Chinese forefathers, the name my brother, my sister and my parents shared — why should anyone else?

In this season of graduations and final assemblies, students in the Bay Area and beyond may harbor similar fears. A new national campaign — My Name, My Identity — promotes respect for students and their diverse names and backgrounds. Educators can sign an online pledge, promising to pronounce students’ names correctly.

Chances are, if your last name isn’t Smith or Jones, people may mispronounce it. Some might think, lighten up, what’s the big deal, get over it, but tales of humiliation and anger have been pouring out on social media under the campaign’s #mynamemyid. They recount teasing by teachers and classmates, or being given another name or nickname against their will.

Launched by Santa Clara’s Office of Education, the National Association for Bilingual Education, and the California Association for Bilingual Education, the campaign through its website has already collected more than 1,200 pledges from more than 500 cities and nearly 300 school districts.

Learning to pronounce a name is another task in an educator’s unending day, but doing so can set the tone for how classmates treat a fellow student that year and beyond.

In my hometown, we were among a handful of Asian families. A few classmates declared open season on me, transforming the three letters of my last name into a high-pitched shriek of a kung fu master. “Hoo-aaaah! Hoo-aaah!”

They used my name against me, telling me I didn’t belong. A 2012 study contends that daily mispronunciations in K-12 schooling may make students feel inferior, lead to anxiety and resentment, and for some, may hinder academic performance.

Many educators already try to say names with respect and accuracy, to establish a rapport with their students and make them feel welcome. Mandy Stewart, an assistant professor of bilingual and ESL education at Texas Woman’s University, tweeted: “Because my students are worth me saying their name correctly!”

More by Vanessa Hua

It may take a few tries, but students appreciate the effort. More than a century ago, immigrants may have felt compelled to change their names — or had their names changed for them — erasing generations of history and identity. You weren’t supposed to look back, but today, our gaze travels around the world. Opportunities go to those who can think beyond borders, those who can befriend, learn from and work with people whose histories and whose names differ from their own.

Asian Americans are the country’s fastest-growing racial group. By 2040, nearly 1 in 10 Americans will be of Asian descent, demographers predict, and last names such as Zhang, Gupta or Autufuga could become more common.

At my middle school graduation, though I was excited to wear my lacy white Gunne Sax dress and clip my hair in a puffy bow, I dreaded the catcalls that my family would hear. It’s been a long time since anyone made fun of my last name, but even now I grapple with when — or if — I should explain the pronunciation: “Wah, like W-A-H” or “Hua, like the end of chihuahua.”

In Chinese, the character for my name is built into the Middle Kingdom’s formal designation: zhong hua ren ming guo. To be a Hua is to be Chinese. To me, it’s also what it means to be American.

When you ask people how to say their names, it’s a chance for cultural exchange, a chance to hear their stories. What’s yours?

 

Vanessa Hua’s column appears Fridays in Datebook.