What’s in a Name?
The story goes that I remained nameless for a month as my parents agonized over this crucial decision. They eventually settled on Ирэна, the Polish name of a cherished heroin in Princessa Ирэна by Alexander Vertinsky. Not to be confused with Ирина (pronounced Ereena), a classic Russian name. Their choice was deliberate, and to this day my mother bristles when people mistakenly call me Ирина. The name they chose reflected their unique story, their shared love of music, and their growing disdain for Soviet life. My name engenders pride in my parents for the way it flows with my patronymic and the subtle way it proclaims that my story would be different.
So then what happens when you abandon your name along with your mother tongue? What happens when the nuanced vowel choice you toiled over for weeks is lost in translation? It turns out that both Ирэна and Ирина are translated as Irena or Irina, and pronounced identically. These two names have entirely different connotations in Russian, but like so many other pieces of our pre-migrant identities, this too would be left behind. After that initial trip to the Social Security Office, I would forever be lumped in with the Irenas of the world, adding another layer between the me that is seen, and the Ирэна beneath.
This layer of disconnection is one I hadn’t fully grappled with until recently. Lingering at a family gathering, an older cousin shared a story about her student, David. “He came into my office complaining about his mother’s constant nagging,” Cynthia recounted.
“Why can’t you just take more courses David, this American education is taking too long!” But when she said David, it sounded more like Daveed. So I stopped him and asked. It turns out his name is pronounced Daveed!
Cynthia ends her story with wide emphatic hand gestures. She seems proud of herself for uncovering this truth about David. I scan the room to find my niece and brother-in-law engrossed in their phones, but Cynthia is not so easily discouraged. “Why would he do that? Your name is your name!” she exclaims... Silence... “Lots of people change their names to make them easier to pronounce,” I say wide eyed. More conversation follows, other family members chime in supportively. “Like me,” I add cautiously, “you know my name isn’t Irena right?” Shock and awe. I had been a member of her family for five years, but she didn’t know.
My upbringing provided many examples of people who didn’t change their names to match American convention or English pronunciation. In Russia, the patronymic naming convention dictates that your middle name is your father’s first name (e.g. Dimitri). Additionally, your middle name and surname both end with a gendered syllable (pronounced “Dimitrivna”). My school mate actually refused to drop the final “a” that marks a feminine end to her surname. As a consequence, she and her sister have slightly different surnames, but that small protest provided a sense of continuity. Other friends translated their first names as minimally as possible, retaining as much of the original pronunciation as could be managed by foreign tongues. In my case, the rolled “rr” sound in Ирэна doesn’t have an English counterpart and is tough to say for many Americans. My husband tries, but even after nine years of practice, he has a 50% success rate.
What about my daughters? What if two people who literally came from me can’t properly name me? You might say, “why not teach them to speak Russian?” And I’d respond that I’m trying, but its harder than you might expect, especially when your spouse isn’t bilingual. And that right there is the price of assimilation. You work so hard to fit in, that one day you’ve created a family who is literally incapable of saying your truth. This was so untenable to me, that we’re taking concrete steps toward amelioration and belonging. I share those steps here, in hopes that they might help you feel seen in your environment.
Monitor for triggers. What references to your culture or country of origin make the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end? For me, it was hearing those closest to me mispronounce my name or mimic a Slavic accent.
Share your experience. The key here is to avoid starting with, “you’re doing something wrong”. Microaggression or not, that kind of accusation invites defensiveness. I try to stick with “When you… I feel...” statements.
Create a shared solution. My true name is never going to roll off my husband’s tongue, though he continues to practice. In the meanwhile, he knows I would rather be called one of many nicknames (which feel familial and warm) than my English name, which feels like a mask.
Keep reflecting. The nickname option wasn’t actually our initial solution. At first my husband tried using my true name, but he kept tripping over the pronunciation, which interrupted the flow of conversation. For some, this might be an acceptable side-effect. For me, the interruption was uncomfortable, so I thought about other authentic solutions. Hence, nicknames!
