Luc Can’t Nguyen
I wrote this story in 2018, my senior year of college. A fellow teacher asked to use the piece as a model for her name narrative unit, in which students analyze the intricacies of their respective names. I think name narratives are a brilliant way to learn more about students, especially at the beginning of the school year. If you are a teacher and would like to use this piece in your classroom, feel free!
I have always hated my name. There’s really no reason that I should feel that way, because my name is deeply rooted in rich Vietnamese history and culture. My full name is Nguyễn Tự Lực. My last name, Nguyễn, is the most common among the Vietnamese population. It carries great power as the name of Vietnam’s last ruling dynasty. My middle name, Tự, has been the common thread running through the generations of men before me. My first name, Lực, literally translates to “strength.” When my parents named me, I’m sure they wanted their only son to wholeheartedly embody this proud name to the fullest. That would be easy if I were entirely Vietnamese. However, I also consider myself an American. I was born and raised in the United States, and that side of my identity is just as important to me as my Vietnamese side. Much to my consternation, and antithetical to my parents’ intentions, my name has become a daily reminder that I am stuck between two drastically different worlds that I love equally and simultaneously.
Americans pronounce my name, “Luke.” That is no one’s fault but mine. In preschool, back when I was too shy to introduce myself, my parents told my teachers that my name was pronounced “Look.” More or less, that is the correct Vietnamese pronunciation. However, I quickly realized that many people had trouble pronouncing my name on the first try. At some point in kindergarten, I started telling people that my name was pronounced “Luke” to alleviate their difficulties. My last name was even worse. I have heard every incorrect variation possible, from sort-of-close (Win) to borderline comical (Nagooyen). To this day, I have never heard a single American pronounce my last name correctly. As a result, I have settled on “Luke Win,” the closest I can get to a regular American name.
Some may wonder, “why don’t you just insist that people pronounce your name correctly? Why not stand up for your culture? Just make people repeat it until they get it right!” That sounds easy enough, but people with common American names seem to underestimate the sheer volume of interactions everyone experiences daily. Where would I begin to correct people?
More importantly, where would I draw the line? I suppose I could start
correcting my closest friends, but would they appreciate the inevitable dips
and lulls of a conversation as I scrutinize their every vowel and consonant? If my friends power through my nagging, I could start grinding away at my
professors’ pronunciations. But would my classmates appreciate the disruption they would endure every few minutes as I doggedly harp on my professors every time they call on me? And if my professors play along, do I continue my crusade into the minutiae of everyday life? When I order food and the cashier asks for a name to call, would the people waiting in line behind me applaud enthusiastically as I stubbornly refuse to insert my card until my name is pronounced to my liking?
Like any other person living in America with an ethnic name, I find myself trapped in this inescapable crevice between two massive worlds. Thousands of years of Vietnamese tradition comprise one world, laden with Tết celebrations, hand-crafted áo dài, and steaming hot bowls of bún thang. Every time someone pronounces my name in the Americanized way, I feel as if I am allowing them to slowly chip away at the culture that my parents so desperately want me to keep alive. At the same time, I feel an urge to represent my American world. I love the beautiful intricacies of baseball, America’s pastime. I love The Star-Spangled Banner, and I love the many freedoms that the country represents. As a result, I feel an intense desire to fit into this wonderful country. Unfortunately, this often means that
I have to operate under a pseudonym.
As a result of the Vietnam War, over a million refugees fled Vietnam in the late 1970s. Many of these refugees settled in America and began a new life, thereby creating a huge generation of first-generation Vietnamese-American children. In these times of distress, I take solace in knowing that I am far from alone. Around the country, millions of other young people just like me are wrestling with these questions that seemingly have no obvious solution. How much of Vietnamese culture will we keep alive with our future families? Will we give our children Vietnamese names? Will we celebrate the Lunar New Year? I’m aware that I don’t need to answer these questions yet, but I can’t help but think ahead. I suppose somewhere between these two worlds is a happy medium, one that satisfies both sides. I have yet to find that balance, and I doubt I ever will.
