- My parents named me after traditional family names.
- A first grade teacher changed my name so it would be easier to say it in English.
- I continue with this name because it is now part of my identity.
Whenever I meet people for the first time and tell them my name, they usually ask me where it came from. It’s a fair question, since I’m not from the American South and I have one too distinctive Australian accent 18 years after first moving to the UK.
I would like to tell you that my parents were inspired by them love of country music and I settled on my name after a whirlwind tour of all the sound joints in Nashville, however it couldn’t be further from the truth – and it’s not even my real name. But it’s a topic that has created its own baggage throughout my life, creating mixed emotions.
A teacher changed my name
I was baptized Maria Luz with many noble, traditional intentions after the choice of my parents. My father is Italian and insisted that they keep the tradition by naming me after his mother. Actually, there is many generations of Mary in my family. If I were a boy, I would be Salvatore, after my grandfather, and there are plenty of them in the family tree.
My middle name, which means light in Spanish, honors my mother, who is from the Philippines and has Spanish names throughout its lineage. For example, my maternal grandmother was named Natividad, a popular name given to girls born at Christmas. I have uncles and cousins with the last names Lopez and Cruz.
I was named Maria in Kindergarten and Preschool based on the caption on our class photos. Then, I started first grade and my mom labeled all my things my full name. My teacher decided it would be easier to modify my name to something that was still true enough to the original but more palatable to the Anglo language.
I was raised not to challenge the judgment of adults, so my mild-mannered 5-year-old self dutifully wrote “MaryLou” on all my worksheets.
I dreaded the first day of school
Of course I had no idea that it would start a chain of awkward conversations at the beginning of every school year when the next teacher would call and call my real name. My classmates always corrected them out loud on my behalf, as they were used to my new name as well.
This continued into high school and I would dread the start of the school year for this very reason. I hated that everyone but me seemed to have a stake in what I was called. I began to feel like I was not in control of my identity and that I wasn’t allowed to be my authentic self.
I thought I had found the perfect solution. My dream of going to college in a big city came true, despite my parents fearing that I would run into the wrong crowd and protesting that I should stay local for my safety and future. But I was determined to escape my stifling small town – and reclaim my identity. I introduced myself as Maria on my first day of college, and so far, so good. I could dictate who I was and what I would be called.
But it wasn’t that easy. Linking and responding to what was essentially a whole new name just didn’t feel right, adding to the insecurity I was beginning to experience as someone from a less affluent background than my classmates. They carried designer labels I’d never heard of and didn’t require a part-time job like the one I spent so much of my free time on.
Getting caught up in the partying and binge drinking culture also meant I put on a lot of weight, making me insecure about my appearance. The guys in the all-boys dorm next to my all-girls even made nasty comments about it. This was a huge setback, as I was supposed to be free of the wires, acne, and lack of interest from boys that defined my high school days.
I kept the name that was not mine
The young me was not all it was cracked up to be. I couldn’t wait to go home and be back at MaryLou, away from the judgmental college scene and back with the people who knew me. I decided that even though I wouldn’t have had a choice in my name all those years ago, I did now.
Should I feel angry at my first grade teacher for saying my name without my consent? Maybe, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything. Should I feel disappointed in my parents for not standing up or empowering me to do so? No, because I can only empathize with how two immigrants who were finding their place in a new culture chose not to take on another battle against the racism they had already experienced.
So here I am, 36 years later, with a name that isn’t really mine, but is very much a part of my identity. My family background already makes me unique in many ways, and the story around my name is just another thing.