I lobbyed early on in my marraige for Indian first names for the kids. I was eager to give them a piece of my heritage, knowing that I had no control over what would remain of that within a few generations. I wanted names that could be pronounced easily and not abbreviated into something “American” sounding. We had considered Akshay for our son, but I was afraid that would become “Shay.” I wanted it to be Indian enough so it would always be a part of them.
In my life the thought of saying my name to somone for the first time always brings up anxiety. In school Charu became “Ch-roo” and I was quick to move on from any tutorials on how to pronounce it. Too often SUCH a big deal is made over how to say it, the person seems unable to move past it. Charu isn’t a hard name to say and it seems to become a weapon used to identify/classify me as “other.” Eager to be accepted but also fiercely proud I never allow any substitution of my name. When I started working as a television reporter I went by my given name. Random viewers would occasionally say “Why didn’t your parents give you a normal name?” Unaware and oblivious.
Resentment over the mirco aggresion continues to build for me. Almost everytime I make an appointment or have to call a customer service line, I go into a canned response when asked my name, “I’ll say it then I’ll spell it.” Sometimes still - awkward conversations with strangers ensue that neither of us have time for.
So I decided to speak up. I had purchased a month of classes at a pricey fitness boutique. The instructor approached me asking if I was new and showing me the equipment. She asked my name, I told her. She became discombobulated and kept saying it, asking again and again if she was saying it correctly. I told her yes and kept trying to move her away from the conversation. I was the only non white person in the class (that I could tell) and was starting to get uncomfortable. I reassured her that it wasn’t a big deal if she got it wrong - but she kept saying it over and over, even drawing another student into the conversation, asking if it was “like charcoal.” I said it one last time “CHA-ROO.” The confusion continued so I finally said “You’re making me uncomfortable.” She said “Oh, oh - I’ll just call you Lisa.” This isn’t the first time the suggestion has been made to give me an anglo name. In college a small town news director told me she’d never hire anyone with “a name like that” to be on air. Certainly some ethnic minorities do decide to adopt another “white” name to avoid conflict.
Charu is my given name, it represents my heritage and I have the privilege of keeping that alive and not being stripped of my roots. That pride has cost me though. It costs me whenever I was not called back for a job interview, anytime I was not promoted in a newsroom, anytime someone seeks to make me an outcast, or anytime that’s the only thing someone chooses to see. Names are so much to us. They are an extension of our ego, identifying us. Parents try to find a unique and uncommon name to set their kids apart. In Hinduism, names are part of a ceremony within the first weeks of birth when the divine is brought in to witness and bless the child. Now we’ve got a plethora of gender neutral names, Becky and Felicia memes and dozens of ways to spell “Kaitlyn” but ethnic names allude us.
www.charukumarhia.com
www.charukumarhia.com
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