Hello, I hate My Name

Narrative inspired by Jason Kim's short story, Hello My Name Is

 I used to believe my name was like a fire in a forest; it was undesirable yet inevitable. I was always baffled at how in a world of over 7 billion individuals I had never once met someone with the same name as me. This obscure mystery cluttered my childish mind until one day the answer to my conundrum dawned on me. My name was not normal. The profound answer I had been searching for was as simple as the fact that I was weird, and so was my name.

 I got my name from a parent who immigrated from India and another who was a first-generation immigrant. According to them, my name means beautiful and smart in Hindi, both of which I used to believe my name challenged. For most of my early childhood, I strongly believed their one goal in life was to ruin mine, and the name they had chosen for me only helped develop my case against them.

 For the first few youthful years of my existence, my name meant nothing to me besides something my parents sang or yelled depending on my actions. It was a mere label that indicated someone else's regard towards me. For all I cared about there was nothing abnormal about my name because at that point in my life all I had known was the culture that had given me my name. The reality of kindergarten stole and warped that naive perspective. In weeks, my name became my worst nightmare. I hated being the odd one out. I hated being the kid who had to repeat their name tirelessly until my kindergarten teacher finally stopped saying "am I saying it correctly, sweetheart?". I hated not being a "Josh" or an "Olivia". I despised my name and with that, I hated being Indian.

 I isolated myself and taunted my own culture in hopes of better fitting in. Fitting into what? I am still not sure, but I am sure I gave it my all to attempt to be white. I thought ditching Diwali and celebrating Christmas would compensate for my name. Spoiler alert: it did not. I was not any less brown than before, and what I failed to see was that any amount of damage I tried to inflict against my heritage was not hurting anyone other than myself.

 I yearned to sit down at dinner each night and smell burgers instead of the spices from the traditional food my mother spent hours making each night. My self-loathing mind ached for packs of goldfish and juice boxes in my lunch box instead of the weird food that made people crinkle their noses. I grew sick of my name having to be repeated over and over again, my mouth growing sick of repeating it. I got tired of waiting for the substitute's face to twist up and get concealed by a frown as I waited for the awkward pause, and the all too familiar apologetic phrase to stumble out of their mouth. "I might get this one wrong" followed by the haunting nervous laugh. I dreaded interactions involving my name. I hated the obnoxious noise of the chopped-up syllables echoing off the walls questioning my bizarre name. At times the awkward-sounding syllables resembled what my mother called me at home, and others were so unfamiliar, the shyness that controlled me, and its refusal to correct them convinced me people at school were allowed to call me the wrong name.

 I was beyond jealous of my brown friends who had normal names. Envious of Roma and her easy-to-pronounce name and Katelyn with her western name. We both had to share the burden of our culture, but how come they did not have to wear the weight of a dreadful name like I did? The newfound disregard I carried towards my name only strengthened my aim to find a way to detach myself from it. I spent hours drafting popular names that could replace my current horrendous one. I continuously dreamed of joining the ordinary life my classmates were living with their normal names. The names I compiled for myself never got the opportunity to establish themselves because I was far too shy and scared.

 Writing my name on my nametag prompted people to struggle to pronounce it, and when I recited it out loud, people failed at spelling it. I have had a long list of names I wish I could call my own, but the list of mispronunciations I have been entitled to is far longer. From Shriw to Chirowi (yes someone wrote that in the card they gave to me at my 3rd grade birthday party) I have heard, and read it all. The shyness I carried as a child only helped pave the way for the destruction of my name and allowed for western influence to further install fear in me.

 Gift shops and tourist hotspots have always been my nightmare. The taunting keychains scribbled in a variety of names, my own always missing. The recurring disappointment of shuffling through the flimsy plastic as the tacky souvenirs softly clashed against each other, the cheap metal stems rattling as my hands skimmed the rows of names. A row full of Aiden's, a row full of Brandon's, and a row full of Charlotte's, yet there was never a Charuvi insight. Every ornament shop I went to, every beachside store, again and again, I looked through every personalized item despite the repetitive "there's no point sweetheart" coming from my mother. I so badly wanted to find my name amongst the several others, not because I wanted the cheap snowman ornament that looked like it would break upon impact, but because for once, I wanted to be normal. I wanted to fit in. I hated being the ugly homemade ornament placed on a tree full of shiny industrial-made ones. I hated being the slush at the foot of the snowman compared to the crisp white snow on the head of the snowman. I hated being the outlier. I deeply treasure the only piece of personalized souvenir I own to this day; the blue lego keychain from Legoland with Charuvi engraved into it.

 As time advanced, as it does, my name found ways to catch up and forced me to abandon my discontent regarding it. I was starting to lose the race I had started against my name.

 I still dread interactions that involve my name just the slightest because while the strong aversion I formerly held towards my name has since dissolved, the reserved nature my personality carries is still alive and thriving. The feelings I carry surrounding my name vary vastly, and over the years of my existence, I have grown more accustomed to accepting the difference my name has compared to the large population I'm surrounded by daily. As my embarrassment diminished, I realized my name had upsides to it (I know, surprising!). Through this long-awaited enlightenment, I realized there were several strengths my name embodied that had been masked for so much of my life.

 I like not needing to add my last initial to differentiate myself. I appreciate my name for having abilities to speak for myself in ways my mouth is not able to. I like how my name spares me from having to add numbers and underscores to my social media usernames. My name has granted me a great conversation starter and has spared me from several awkward conversations. I like my name because not only is it unique, but the seven letters and three syllables it carries have a way of perfectly encapsulating me and my culture (which I am also no longer running away from). I like my name, and as simple as that sounds, the process of adapting to it was quite the opposite.

 Names are far more than something people call you. They are way more than something you write on tests and read on the side of your fast food order. They represent a part of you and relate to each of us in one way or another. They stand for our personalities and develop us into the people we eventually grow up to be. We all have names that represent us, and Charuvi Singh represents me. It does not matter how many keychains the world holds with your name. How many search results come up on name.org, or how many people you have encountered mirroring your name is superficial. What's important is that you understand how much your name is worth and how important it is.

 Younger me was so preoccupied with avoiding being perceived as weird because of my name, I completely overlooked the true meaning of my name and its deeper significance. I wish Younger Charuvi could see that the fire her name conveyed powered the environment rather than destroying it.