Luc Can’t Nguyen (Part Two)

A few years ago, I published an essay about my name. You can read the full essay here, but the gist of the essay boiled down to my frustration towards being stuck between being Vietnamese and American; my name served as a symbol of this dichotomy. I don’t think that the essay truly captured how I feel about my name, so I decided to write a follow-up.

My name has never been pronounced correctly by a person who doesn’t speak Vietnamese. I doubt that record will ever change because Vietnamese is a language full of really subtle intonations and sounds. For example, the word “ba” in Vietnamese could either mean “father” or “three” depending on the context. If I change the intonation very slightly by lilting my tone up or down, the word could shift completely to a litany of other words including “grandmother” and “nonsense.” People who don’t grow up with the language simply struggle to hear and/or speak those differences.

I, along with everyone else who has grown up trapped between multiple cultures, have been forced to repeatedly pronounce my name countless times. The most memorable example was on the first day of school in one of my classes in 11th grade. The teacher was taking attendance, and, as always, I was dreading the moment when my name would be called. She called my name, and then asked the million dollar question: “how do you really say your name?”

“Pronouncing it as “Luke Na-win” (I have since changed my preferred pronunciation of my last name to “Win”) would be fine,” I said.

“No, no. I’m going to say it correctly. Tell me again how to say it,” she insisted.

The conversation bounced back and forth for about thirty more seconds, which felt like an hour to me. The entire class was watching this interaction, and I’m sure they could notice my leg shaking and neck growing hotter. This teacher was one of hundreds of Well Meaning People (WMPs for short) who I have met. Every one of these WMPs have the purest intentions at heart. They want to make me feel included. They don’t want me to settle. They don’t want me to lose my identity. So, they insist that I tell them how to say my name correctly. Here’s how the interaction always goes, word-for-word.

WMP: How do you really say your name?

Me: Just say “Luke Win.”

WMP: No, no. I’m telling you. I can say it. Just say it once.

Me: [sighs and says my name correctly]

WMP: [insert something that is sort of close, but not correct]

Me: That was pretty good, but not quite. Just stick with “Luke Win.”

WMP: Hold on, hold on. Just say it again one more time. I’m telling you. I speak [insert language besides English]. I can do it. Say it again.

Me: [says name correctly again]

WMP: [insert something that is, again, sort of close, but not correct]

Me: Yeah, not quite. Let’s move on.

WMP: Okay, okay, just one more try. Say it one more time.

This charade, depending on how patient I am, can go on forever. I used to have this script in which I would break down each letter of my name, one at a time. It didn’t work. Each time, I would listen as the WMP mangled my name again and again. I am not exaggerating when I say that I have had this exact conversation hundreds of times.

I realized recently that more often than not, the WMP in this scenario is insisting on this exercise more for their own benefit than mine. Notice the pronoun usage. The WMP repeatedly uses the pronoun “I.” There is a sort of competitive frustration that comes with this inability to say a name correctly, a seemingly simple task. But my name isn’t simple. It means a lot to me. It holds a lot of power, and I deserve to have control over it. And every time I have to participate in this charade with a WMP, I cede a little more control over my own identity. So, if you are reading this and see a bit of yourself in the WMP in the conversation above, I ask that you simply call me by what I’d like to be called. I’m not colonizing my name by settling for less. I’m deciding that I will only accept perfection, and the only people who can say it perfectly are those who can speak Vietnamese.

But here’s the most difficult part of this whole ordeal: I am just one person. There are millions of other people in the same situation as mine. Many of those people prefer that their names be pronounced correctly, the ethnic way. And I wholly respect these people’s decision, and will work to pronounce their names the way they want them to be pronounced. Everyone should do the same. It goes without saying, but I do not speak for everyone. Every single person deserves to have agency over their own name and identity, no matter how much work it takes for everyone else.

Since this blog is education-based, I’ll direct this next section through the lens of teachers. I think everyone can glean some insight, though.

Educators, consider these ideas:

1. When taking attendance on the first day of school, do not call out names from the roster. Point to each student and ask what their name is. If they have some other name on the roster, they will tell you. But handing the reins to them from the beginning avoids the awful “I’m sorry, but I’m going to butcher this pronunciation” line. Let them tell you what they would like to be called first.
2. During work time in which students are focused on their own tasks, bounce around the room and individually double-check name pronunciations and preferences with students. Sometimes, shyer students won’t share anything with the whole class watching and listening. These individual check-ins are great for ensuring that each student is heard and building those all-important relationships.
3. Recognize that good intentions are not enough. At the end of the day, our jobs as educators hinge upon whether or not our students feel safe and welcome in the classroom. If a student prefers to be called Daniel instead of his Korean name, call him Daniel (even if you are learning Korean on Duolingo). If a student wants you to learn how to say Paula as a native Spanish speaker would, practice until she’s satisfied. There is no catch-all for ethnic names. The only way to make all students feel validated is to listen to them, work as hard as possible to meet their needs, and remember that the whole exercise is about them.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll need to publish a Part Three someday. For now, I would like for non-Vietnamese speakers to pronounce my name as “Luke Win.” I feel the most agency over my identity when I have control. I hope that teachers (and everyone else) can grant that same control to those with ethnic names. I know that’s not too much to ask.