“Shyama Kaylen Nithiananda”

I have a weird name.

The third thing that my mother told me when she sat me down to say that she and my dad were getting divorced was that she was keeping her married last name. In all that followed, I could never understand why she wanted to keep my dad’s name. To be very clear, my dad is an awesome person, but I could never understand why, if she didn’t want to live or sleep or eat with him anymore, my mother wanted that constant reminder of my dad attached to her. But she said that, after twenty-some-odd years of having that name, it was part of her identity. I still didn’t understand.

I wondered, since then, if I would take my spouse’s name if I ever got married. On the one hand, it was a symbol of unity that I could appreciate. On the other hand, it grew out of a sexist tradition. On yet another hand, “Shyama” sounds weird with just about every other last name, besides the one I have. And what if I marry a woman? How do we decide on a name? What if we got divorced? If I kept my name, how would we name children?

I’m eighteen and nowhere near marriage, so I know that my opinion on this might change, but I’m fairly certain that I will not change my name. I wish I could say this was a purely feministic decision, but that’s not the case. The fact is that my name is an integral part of my identity, just as it was for my mother.

My last name is “Nithiananda.” It’s phonetic, but scary to most people since it’s just so damn long. It’s Sri Lankan. My middle name is “Kaylen,” AKA “The Whitest Name On The Planet”.

These names represent the cultural union between a little town in Arkansas and a country halfway across the world. They represent traditions that, while don’t span generations, are unique to my family.

My name is memories of eating curry after coming home from Christmas Eve mass.

It’s lighting incense and putting on the country radio station when company is coming.

It’s the weird little half-southern-half-British accent my sister and I adopted when we were learning to speak.

It’s the color of my skin.

It’s part of me.

During my parents’ divorce, I went through boxes of pictures. I found a snapshot of my parents in college. My mom was wearing a bikini top and she was laughing. My dad had a ridiculously thick mustache that matched his ridiculously thick glasses. They were sitting on the lawn, presumably at some party, Mom in Dad’s lap. Neither of them were looking at the camera, and they looked very happy. I stole that picture.

For a long time, I carried that picture around with me in secret because it reminded me of a time when my parents were happy together. Now, when I think of that picture, that melancholy sense of second-hand regret that children of divorce are all too familiar with is gone. It’s replaced with this sense of quietly burning pride. While I recognize that my parents are no longer meant to be together, I also recognize that I am a symbol of their union – the connection that they had once upon a time, even if it isn’t there anymore. I am equal parts, Mom and Dad. My name reflects that.

On both a personal and cultural level, I’m finding more and more that my name is very integral to who I am. And I think I like that.

To sum up, I know my name is scary to a lot of people, and I know a lot of people don’t want to offend me by mispronouncing it or asking a politically incorrect question about where it’s from. But I think that we learn a lot about a person based on how they relate to their name.So, I say, without a hint of facetiousness, if you see the name “Shyama Kaylen Nithiananda” and it confuses you, ask me about it. Not only won’t I mind – I’ll be flattered.

It is a weird name, after all.