(500 word limit, CA submission. Prompt: It is three weeks before the start of your freshman year at BU, and you are talking to your new roommate for the first time. Since you are trying to get to know each other, what are a few things you would want to share about who you are? )
The first question I asked my parents after they told me that we're moving to Seattle wasn't "Why are we moving?" or "When are we moving?" or "Will I ever see my friends?". The first thing I asked my parents after their news was:
"What should I be called?"
And when my parents exchanged confused looks, I told them "We're moving to the America right? So shouldn't I have an English name so to fit in?". They smiled and told me, yes, Kwan-To, you'll need an English name, so choose one for yourself. And I remembered jumping in excitement, my mind lost in the freedom of deciding my new name.
Retreating to my room, I scanned every piece of English literature I had - Books, magazines, newspapers, advertisements - and I read every name they mentioned: John, Peter, Sam, Christopher, James, the list seemed endless! At last, I saw the perfect name. The same name as Jordan, Jackson, and better still, Keaton, the guy who played Batman! If all three are respected in the US because they're called Michael, then I should call myself that too.
I quickly took up my new identity: I crossed off Chinese name tags and write Michael instead, I reintroduce myself to old friends and family as Michael Chan. I wouldn't even answer to my parents unless they called me Michael. I didn't see it as being rude or annoying, I saw it as the only way to become "Americanized" and change who I am. I saw as the only way to fit in with their society - the only way to survive.
The day finally came when it was time to leave. As I looked at my relatives at the boarding gate one last time, I saw the crying face of my grandmother, calling out "Good bye, Kwan-To". No matter how many times I tried to teach her, she refused to say my new name. "I will always call you Kwan-To, no matter what" she told me. I smiled at the recollection, gave her a big hug, and left to find my seat on the plane.
And that's when I broke down and cried.
I realized at the moment what my grandmother meant: my name wasn't just a representation of who I am, it's a representation of my history. To me, Kwan To might have been just a name. To my grandmother though, it meant her grandson, her own heritage and pride. It was a symbol of the culture I inherited, and amidst the fear of fitting in with American identity, I nearly forgot my Chinese one. It was a powerful reminder and it made me value Kwan-To so much more.
Today, my name is now officially Michael Kwan-To Chan. People would often ask me what Kwan-To means, and I would tell them it means that my grandmother can still see who her grandson is. It means my parents and I can look back and see me as a child. It means that I survived.
The first question I asked my parents after they told me that we're moving to Seattle wasn't "Why are we moving?" or "When are we moving?" or "Will I ever see my friends?". The first thing I asked my parents after their news was:
"What should I be called?"
And when my parents exchanged confused looks, I told them "We're moving to the America right? So shouldn't I have an English name so to fit in?". They smiled and told me, yes, Kwan-To, you'll need an English name, so choose one for yourself. And I remembered jumping in excitement, my mind lost in the freedom of deciding my new name.
Retreating to my room, I scanned every piece of English literature I had - Books, magazines, newspapers, advertisements - and I read every name they mentioned: John, Peter, Sam, Christopher, James, the list seemed endless! At last, I saw the perfect name. The same name as Jordan, Jackson, and better still, Keaton, the guy who played Batman! If all three are respected in the US because they're called Michael, then I should call myself that too.
I quickly took up my new identity: I crossed off Chinese name tags and write Michael instead, I reintroduce myself to old friends and family as Michael Chan. I wouldn't even answer to my parents unless they called me Michael. I didn't see it as being rude or annoying, I saw it as the only way to become "Americanized" and change who I am. I saw as the only way to fit in with their society - the only way to survive.
The day finally came when it was time to leave. As I looked at my relatives at the boarding gate one last time, I saw the crying face of my grandmother, calling out "Good bye, Kwan-To". No matter how many times I tried to teach her, she refused to say my new name. "I will always call you Kwan-To, no matter what" she told me. I smiled at the recollection, gave her a big hug, and left to find my seat on the plane.
And that's when I broke down and cried.
I realized at the moment what my grandmother meant: my name wasn't just a representation of who I am, it's a representation of my history. To me, Kwan To might have been just a name. To my grandmother though, it meant her grandson, her own heritage and pride. It was a symbol of the culture I inherited, and amidst the fear of fitting in with American identity, I nearly forgot my Chinese one. It was a powerful reminder and it made me value Kwan-To so much more.
Today, my name is now officially Michael Kwan-To Chan. People would often ask me what Kwan-To means, and I would tell them it means that my grandmother can still see who her grandson is. It means my parents and I can look back and see me as a child. It means that I survived.
