Living in a white-washed Southern city doesn’t abide well for an Asian American like me. The name “Anhtu” can be separated into two words in Vietnamese. “Anh” which means brother and “Tú” which means handsome. But whenever someone asks my name or how to pronounce it, the embarrassment flows through my nerves.
I hate my name.
My name is like a chain, an anchor, a weight, a prison…. and an homage to my identity. The moment I utter the letters that make up my name like a hydrocarbon chain of methyls, there’s a conscience at the brink of my mind who is rushing to hide in the deep crevices away from my white peers that still call me “Dudo” because it’s easier to say. And then there’s my other conscience, smelling the beefy pho and the garlicky banh xeo, tasting the jellowy che and the plump bao, and watching the graceful movements of the ao dai of the dancers strutting along to the musing of the dragon dance.
My mother had an American name when she immigrated. But never in my life did I think about giving myself an American name. My name was like a chain, an anchor, a weight, a prison. If I pick an American name, it would be weird and out of place. But if I keep it, I am subjected to the fears of racial discrimination, foreign isolation, and outcast classification. Would I still be me if my name was different? Would I still be proud of myself?
Maybe I don’t hate my name.
