The Hyphen

“Choi? Cory? Kai?”

“It’s Khoi—Like Roy but with a K.”

This is a typical conversation I always find myself in whenever I am in an establishment that requires your name to be called out. One might think I would be annoyed, having to go through this dance every time, but I actually don’t mind— most times, a nice short conversation follows.

But as of recent years, my name is something I’ve dwelled on occasionally: How important is a name?

Being born and raised in Southern California, the topic of my name never came to mind. California—Orange County, to be more precise— is brimming with diversity. There’s a stroke of every culture painted on the community’s canvas. Being surrounded by ethnic names like Jose, Carlos, Marcella, Minh, Hoang, Nasir, and Ashkon, I felt content. It was only when I grew older and traversed to areas where these names were more scarce, that the subject of my name came to mind.

In this particular instance, when the California skies became dull and predictable and seeing the same palm trees grow ever taller, the desire for different scenery was needed—I found myself in the humid lands of rural America at a popular BBQ joint. I presented my ID to our server because when legally drinking is new and exciting, every 21-year-old needs an alcoholic beverage to accompany EVERY meal. The server glanced at my ID and glanced at me. Okay, that’s pretty normal; you got to match the faces, sure. But then repeated the motion like a vaudevillian double take. She then proceeded to say, “Your English is so good!” At first, I was ecstatic by the compliment. She must think I am a master of words and the English language is at my command! After a few more seconds of indulging myself in more mental pats on the back, I realized that she deduced from my name and ethnicity that English was not my first language.

It occurred to me that because my first name is Vietnamese, I must be an immigrant. Surely, if I were born in the United States, I would be given an American name—which is done all the time. But that is not the case with my family. My parents, brother, and sister smuggled themselves out of an oppressive Vietnam and entered the United States, the land of infinite opportunities, as refugees. Khoi actually means a new beginning, so my parents thought it was a fitting name for me, given the situation.

Sadly, since the incident in the south, the thought has come to my mind about changing my name to a more “Americanized” one. I had to think hard about why I felt this way. To be recognized as American? Maybe I wanted to distance myself from being seen as an immigrant and show that I’m “assimilated,” but the thing is—I am American. I’m every bit as much American as I am Vietnamese. America was founded on the principle of upholding diverse cultures, ethnicities, and religions; I would like to hope that I’m a product of that. So I guess it became a matter of what my name means to me and what it represents.