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The etymology of immigration 

My legal name is my Chinese name: 林耘非. In Mandarin, the surname (林) comes before the first name (耘非). However, the anglicized translation reverses the order to “Yun Fei Lin.”

The fact that we refer to a Chinese name as a “first name” reflects the hegemony of Western thinking. My legal name is my Chinese name, because my parents decided against changing it to “Georgia” to avoid the hassle of altering dozens of formal documents. I am, however, immensely grateful for their passivity toward the name-change process, as I have come to tie my Chinese name to my cultural identity as a Taiwanese-Canadian immigrant.

I used to associate my Chinese name—one that Westerners would twist with inaccurate inflexions—with the annoyance of having to correct it to “Georgia” instead. Teachers would preface its pronunciation by sheepishly saying, “I’m going to butcher this, I’m sorry.” Being addressed with the same words one would use to describe the use of a cleaver, when the meaning of each character and stroke in my Chinese name actually has traditional significance, only increased my feelings of shame about my name. Its symbolism is engrained in my mind, and yet, I struggled to separate the racial slights I received from its personal definition.

Racialized names are simultaneously political and deeply personal, prompting questions and choices about self-identification, assimilation, and culture. I interviewed three students of East Asian descent—Erica Sung, Joyce Ou, and Yvonne Chen—about their experiences with having multiple names, and what it means for their individual cultural identities.

The Strand: What is your given name, and what is your preferred name?

Erica Sung: My given name is 성시현 (Sung Sihyun) and my preferred name—the name I most often go by—is Erica. It was originally my Catholic name, given to me by my aunt/godmother.

Joyce Ou: My given name is 区嘉琦 (Ou Jiaqi) and my preferred name is Joyce. My legal name is Joyce, but I don’t have a legal Chinese name, so whenever I travel in and out of China I don’t give them my Chinese name.

Yvonne Chen: My given name is 陳一方(Chen Yi Fang) and my preferred name is Yvonne. I’ve actually never had to spell it in English before.

Was there a time when you exclusively used your given name? Did you ever feel ostracized while using non-Western names in Western society?

ES: I almost exclusively use my preferred name with anyone who isn’t family or a family friend. I’ve never personally felt ostracized by having a non-Western name because the school environment in which I grew up had many peers who were in similar situations to mine. I’ve only ever associated the name “Sihyun” with family.

JO: Up until kindergarten, I used my Chinese name in a local school in China. When I started attending international school at age four, I didn’t even know that I had an English name. I just remember I had to pick a name tag with my English name, provided by the teacher, and I didn’t know which one was mine. I’ve never had to use my given name in Western society.

YC: I’ve used my given name in Chinese school and in Taiwan. A lot of my relatives use a weird mashup of my Chinese and English names. I’ve never used my Chinese name in Western society.

Illustration | Wren Turner

Have you ever grappled with choosing to use one name over the other? I’ve certainly had conflicting emotions about whether using my preferred name meant submitting to assimilation as an immigrant, and if doing so meant I wasn’t staying authentic enough to my culture.

ES: Since I immigrated to Canada very young (at two years old), I didn’t feel very strongly one way or the other until I was old enough to understand the implications of the decision. At this point, I still haven’t experienced too large of a personal conflict in using either name. It’s actually comforting to me that my given name is solely associated with my family because it holds a connotation exclusive to my Korean identity.

JO: No, I’ve always lived in Asia, and went to international school there before university. Chinese classes were also mandatory up to sixth grade, and everyone was kind of in the same boat as I was. If I met someone who didn’t speak English, I’d give them my Chinese name. In international school I’d use my English name, but in Chinese society I’d use my Chinese name.

YC: I find that having both names gives me the ability to have a place in both societies, and I never have to choose because they’re quite separate.

Have you ever thought about legally changing your name to your preferred name, and what would the implications be on your cultural identity?

ES: I’ve considered including “Erica” on my legal documents, but I would never want to replace my given name entirely. I wouldn’t want to remove my given name because it would feel as though I’d be erasing an aspect of where I’ve come from and what my parents have given me.

Have you ever thought of using one name over the other?

JO: I don’t think so. Personally, I don’t tie my identity to my name.

YC: I would rather use Yvonne over my Chinese name. I identify more with my Canadian nationality and most of my social functions are in English, which is why I use my English name more often. But I like having the option to use my Chinese name when I want to.

What do you think the significance of ethnic names is for first-generation and second-generation immigrants? Do your names tie into being Canadian versus being an immigrant?

ES: I associate each of my names with my national versus my cultural identity, and both are important to me for different reasons. My parents had to give up so much of their own culture in immigrating to Canada to provide a better life for me, but I don’t want any of us to give it up entirely because it’s an imperative part of who we are—if only because it’s what connects us despite the generation gap and language barrier. I also like my English name because it refers to who I’ve been given the opportunity to become because of my parents’ sacrifices. Both names are indicative of me being a Canadian immigrant and my identity as a result of it.

JO: I know that a lot of names have special characters, and every character has a story/moral behind it. It’s just that using ethnic names makes you subject to more micro-aggressions—you would be treated differently. Things like when teachers call on you and they don’t get it right, and you have to give them a nickname instead; my last name is Ou and they’d pronounce it like “Ooh” since it sounds French. I don’t really feel Canadian because I just moved here; I just have it as a nationality. I don’t have a Chinese citizenship.

It’s almost like there’s a sense of shame attached to it when there shouldn’t be.

YC: For our generation, I find that we’re in a world of in-betweens. For me, having a name to identify with in both Taiwanese and Canadian cultures is important. My Canadian name is literally a pun on my Chinese name (my parents thought it sounded similar), and though I use Yvonne more often, it’s interesting to note that my Chinese name came first.

Have you ever experienced discrimination or confusion regarding your given name, or were told it was “beautiful” when translated into its anglicized version?

ES: Because both syllables of my name don’t exist in the English language, I prefer not to disclose it to others if I think it will only lead to multiple botched attempts at pronouncing it. It’s not important for it to be known to those who aren’t my family or friends of my family.

JO: No, but other Chinese people ask what my Chinese name is. But if another white person asks, I’m more reluctant to say it, because it’s not like they’re going to call me by my Chinese name.

YC: People call me Yvonne. When people ask me my Chinese name, it’s with polite curiosity. I’ve never been faced with an “Oh my god, that’s so cool!” reaction.

 

Interviewing Erica, Joyce, and Yvonne about their experiences with their names both surprised me and reaffirmed my convictions. Although my Chinese name has been mocked and mispronounced with various intentions by others, including a fetishization of the “exotic” Asian stereotype by labelling names as “beautiful” without knowing their significance, keeping it creates a shared affinity between myself and other immigrants. Our diverse, multiple cultural identities are both separate and intertwined.

I don’t think I could ever legally change my name to simply “Georgia,” because losing 林耘非—even its anglicized version—on the passports and papers I carry with me between Taiwan and Canada would be losing an integral part of myself. Having my Chinese name present in my academic life on assignments and attendance records reminds me of how formational my immigrant experience was and continues to be. My Chinese name allows me to keep a firm grasp on my Taiwanese culture, and I have no intention to divest from tradition for the sake of convenience.

These interviews have been edited for length and clarity.

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