By: Denise Kyeremeh (’23), Content Manager & Staff Writer
I’m used to people mispronouncing my name. People usually say Denise properly, but they always get Kyeremeh wrong. I even bet reading it just now tripped you up. During roll call in grade school, I became familiar with the pause teachers took after calling my first name as they stared down the letters in my last name. That pause signaled to me that it was time to save them from the agony of trying to pronounce my ethnic name. At that point, I would shout “here” hoping the teacher would move on. When teachers rattled off other names on the roster and got stuck on mine, it made me feel different, almost like a bother. On top of other features like my hair and skin color, my last name marked me as an African kid.
Names are one of the few gifts given to us that are meant to last us a lifetime. They can be deeply meaningful or whimsical, but they are typically given with pride. When a name is given to a child, it marks them as a member of a group whether it be cultural, religious, or geographical. Names are a way for parents to pass down their membership in a group to their children. My names are a conglomerate of meanings given to me that my parents and culture want me to carry with pride. Every Ghanaian is given a name based on the day they were born and their gender. My name Adwoa means I am a girl born on Monday. My name Tawiah means that I was born after twins and my name Nketia is the name passed down to me from my grandfather. These names signify different parts of my identity that help tell the story of who I am and who my parents dreamed I would be though most people only know me as Denise.
I understand the privilege that comes with having a first name that is seen as normal in the majority culture. My first name alone does not hint at my ethnic background but some of my friends have different experiences. Since I was in middle school, I have met several people who have ethnic first names and go by their Anglo middle names or nicknames. This could happen because parents want their children to both fit in and carry their ethnicity in their name or kids could choose the simplicity of an “American” name.
Much of the K-12 experience for children in the United States is about trying to fit in. Any deviation from the norms of the majority group can be a reason for kids to get ostracized or bullied. Instead of embracing their name and culture, it can be tempting to create distance from them. In the same way that kids from ethnic backgrounds become self-conscious about bringing traditional food to school for lunch, teaching someone their name can be an exasperating task. For a child growing up in a place where that is not a common response when people hear their name, it can be traumatizing. The depth of my frustration was people constantly asking me where my name was from but I saw kids get picked on because the closest thing their name sounded like was the name of a clothing brand or popular phrase. Having a name be mocked and compared to a random word pushes alienates kids for something they did not choose and should feel pride in – their name.
Recently, I have seen more young adults my age choose to go by their cultural first names. Whether they used their middle name or a nickname growing up, many are going back to the name given to them that represents their culture. There are a lot of reasons a child may not go by their cultural name. Their parents may have wanted them to assimilate easier or they may have chosen a name they did not have to explain. Reclaiming a name can be a symbol of reclaiming culture and control. Choosing to go by a cultural first name as an adult can be a resistance against the pressure to assimilate. Even as we age, we are expected to adapt in order to appease the majority or suffer professionally and socially. Pushing back comes with the confidence to boldly expect others to address you correctly.
In college, I began introducing myself with the correct pronunciation of my last name. People usually ask me to repeat it at least two or three times before giving up. My last name is pronounced Chreh-meh, the K-y-e makes a CH sound. It’s a name you just have to commit to memory and for a long time, I didn’t feel like I deserved that. It seemed like a burden to ask people to remember how to say it correctly or sit with the discomfort of not knowing. In my experience, most people want to know how to pronounce my name correctly so that they can honor me in that way. Constantly repeating my name takes effort, but I remind myself that I shouldn’t be embarrassed about someone else struggling to understand the sounds of my name. I’m excited that the next generation of kids with ethnic names can feel empowered to confidently tell people their names.
