A first-grade teacher changed my name so it'd be easier to say in English. I've gone by it since.
My parents named me after traditional family names.
A first-grade teacher changed my name so it'd be easier to say in English.
I still go by that name because it is now part of my identity.
Whenever I meet people for the first time and tell them my name, I usually get asked where it came from. It's a fair question, given that I'm not from the American South and also have a distinct Australian accent 18 years after first moving to the UK.
I wish I could tell you that my parents were inspired by their love of country music and settled on my name after a whirlwind tour of all the honky tonk joints in Nashville, yet it couldn't be further from the truth — and nor is it my real name. But it's a subject that has created its own baggage my whole life, creating mixed emotions.
A teacher changed my name
I was christened Maria Luz with lots of noble, traditional intentions behind my parents' choice. My father is Italian and insisted they keep with tradition by naming me after his own mother. Indeed, there are many generations of Maria in my family. Had I been a boy, I would have been Salvatore, after my paternal grandfather, and there are plenty of them in the family tree, too.
My middle name, meaning light in Spanish, honors my mother, who is from the Philippines and has Spanish names throughout her lineage. My maternal grandmother, for example, was called Natividad, a popular name given to girls born at Christmas. I have uncles and cousins with the last names of Lopez and Cruz.
I was called Maria in kindergarten and pre-school based on the caption in our class photos. Then, I started first grade, and my mother labeled all my belongings with my full name. My teacher decided it would be easier to modify my name to something that was still true enough to the original but more palatable for the Anglo tongue.
I was raised not to challenge the decision of adults, so my mild-mannered 5-year-old self dutifully wrote "MaryLou" on all my worksheets.
I dreaded the first day of school
Of course I had no idea it would set off a chain of awkward conversations at the beginning of each school year, when the next teacher would do roll call and call out my real name. My classmates would always loudly correct them on my behalf, having also grown accustomed to my new name.
This continued into high school, and I would dread the start of the school year for that very reason. I hated that everyone except me seemed to have a stake in what I was called. I started to feel like I wasn't in control of my own identity and that I wasn't allowed to be my authentic self.
I thought I'd found the perfect solution. My dream of going away to college in a big city came true, despite my parents fearing I would fall in with the wrong crowds and protesting that I should stay local for my own safety and future. But I was determined to escape my suffocating small town — and reclaim my identity. I introduced myself as Maria on the first day of college, and so far, so good. I could dictate who I was and how I would be called.
But it wasn't that easy. Connecting with and responding to what was essentially a whole new name just didn't feel right, adding to the uncertainty I was starting to experience as someone from a less affluent background than my classmates. They wore designer labels I had never heard of and didn't need part-time jobs like the one I spent so much of my free time at.
Getting caught up in the party and binge drinking culture also meant I gained a lot of weight, making me insecure about how I looked. The guys at the all-boys dorm next door to my all-girls one even made nasty comments about it. This was a huge setback, as I was supposed to be breaking free of the braces, acne and lack of interest from boys that defined my high school days.
I kept the name that wasn't mine
The new me wasn't all it was cracked up to be. I couldn't wait to go home and return to being MaryLou, away from the judgmental college scene, and be back with people who knew me. I decided that even though I'd not really had a choice about my name all those years ago, I had one now.
Should I feel anger at my first-grade teacher for anglicizing my name without my consent? Possibly, but it wouldn't achieve anything. Should I feel disappointed in my parents for not standing their ground or empowering me to do so? No, because I can only empathize with how two immigrants who were finding their place in a new culture chose not to take on yet another battle against the racism they had already experienced.
So here I am, 36 years later, with a name that isn't really mine but is very much part of my identity. My family background already makes me unique in many ways, and the story around my name is just one more thing.
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