“What’s your name?”

“Chenghui”

“Do you have a nickname?”

There are a select few people who ask me if I have a nickname. Baffled, I reply with a decisive “no.” Some of these people have the audacity to look shocked when I reply negatively. For me, nicknames are diminutive. They snatch away the imagery and thought my parents placed in my name. Therefore, I only allow family and certain friends to call me by a nickname.

There was a lady that I worked with who insisted on calling me Cheng. I corrected her, and she dismissed me saying it was an endearing term. One time, in our workplace, she introduced me as Cheng. I reintroduced myself as Chenghui and as soon as I was done, she chipped in and said, “But you guys can call her Cheng.” Flustered, I had no comeback for that. At the moment, it felt foolish that I had to assert dominance over my own name, so I kept my mouth shut and smiled tightly.

Other nicknames, although intended for friendly laughter, also make me puke on the inside. In fact, I have no idea what to say when called, so I combat it with more bitter smiles and laughs. I feel like I need to preserve my friendships, especially the new ones, by not correcting them. Although correcting them would put me at ease, my action would shake the friendship boat. After all, definite slavery feels more comfortable than uncertain freedom.

But no more of that. These people will soon forget what they had done to make me feel upset. Ultimately it’s up to me to clarify my name, something so fundamentally in my jurisdiction. If people leave from such a reproach, then they’re not friends.

My name is Chenghui, and I’m proud of it.

My challenge to my readers:

I wonder about the people whom I have given nicknames. Are they like me? If I feel terrible about unintentional nicknames, then how much more despairing is it for intentional diminutive nicknames? Maybe we should think twice before labeling nicknames.