I am often asked about my name—how to pronounce it, how to spell it, what it means in Chinese.

But more than anything, I’m asked why I have two of them.

For those unfamiliar, it’s typical for ethnic minorities to have an “English name” in addition to their birth name. Some choose a name with a similar sound or meaning—a person called Jian might go by Jane—but others, like me, have two vastly different names.

I adopted my own Westernized name, Emily, at age four, learning it in conjunction with English as my new language. In this way, the name was a symbol of assimilation—I was supposed to be American now, and I needed a name to match. Indeed, my parents chose Emily precisely because it was the most popular name of my birth year; it fit in.

Much literature, such as this Quartz article, explains that mispronouncing or "Americanizing" names can be a microagression, leading people to ultimately shun their native languages and cultures. I realized to my horror that I found elements of its truth in my own experience; I brace myself at the beginning of the school year, waiting for the annual round of mispronunciations. And in frustrating moments, when my name is spelled wrong despite multiple explanations, or when I'm called a barely recognizable "Ex-lynn" or "Zy-long," it's hard not to love a name like Emily. Xinlan is weird, Xinlan is “other,” so let’s use something that sounds just as American as apple pie.

“So eliminate the name Emily,” you might argue; start going by Xinlan, embrace your identity, end of essay.

Not so fast, because a few issues remain.

I did seriously consider using only “Xinlan” at one point, but realized that I couldn’t bring myself to drop “Emily” from my name. This is the question that existing literature never addressed: though society will certainly be better off without forcing minorities to adopt "Americanized" names, what happens when you've grown up with such a name for the past fourteen years? At this point, removing Emily meant that I was erasing a part of myself—a part to which I had developed fond memories.

I didn’t want to stop being Emily.

I wondered if this feeling meant that I had failed somehow—that I had submitted to my own erasure, and assimilation won. But I couldn’t reconcile that idea with my enduring pride in being Chinese; I still spoke the language, remained actively involved in the community.

Why can’t I embrace my Chinese culture as Emily? Is there something inherently wrong about combining an American name with a Chinese one?

Thus, I set out to reclaim Emily as my own. I created a meaning for “Emily” that lies beyond assimilation: instead of viewing it as a way to perpetuate the dominant culture, I now choose to take pride in it as symbol of my blended cultural experience. My full name, the name I prefer for documentation such as my high school diploma, is Xinlan Emily Hu. Two Chinese words, one English word, with the Chinese words as the bookends.

I see that combination as quintessentially me, for I am not complete without Xinlan. And I am not complete without Emily. Xinlan and Emily are equally important.

Growing up in the United States as a Chinese immigrant, I’ve been profoundly influenced by both cultures. I am, more accurately, a Chinese-American, and I believe that Asians should be represented as part of a diverse America.

Being Xinlan Emily Hu, then, means that I can be both proudly Chinese and a full, equal American. And I find it empowering to have a dual identity that I can speak openly about.

The broader issue, however, is to extend that empowerment to the thousands who are not so comfortable with their names—whose names represent oppression and assimilation rather than a deliberate choice to exist between two cultures. I do not have a definitive answer, but I do have some food for thought.

One possible strategy is to adopt what the above-linked Quartz article suggests—build an inclusive culture within schools, and ensure that teachers respect each student’s background and name. I was fortunate to have many supportive teachers throughout my education, and I know that encouragement from the bottom up is truly crucial in helping students develop a sense of belonging.

Another strategy lies in the availability of resources; my college, for instance, provides a tool called NameCoach that allows students to record their own name pronunciations. I find NameCoach a very promising sign. By centering names around a student’s choice, we can shift power away from the dominant culture and back into the hands of the individual. Indeed, I want to reemphasize that a name is a profoundly personal choice—though I made the choice to continue using Emily, society should be supportive regardless of the name someone chooses to use. It is my hope, above all, that we create a culture of mutual respect.

Through these steps and more, we will reclaim the power of our own names; we will make names meaningful not because they are paths to conformity, but because they are unique, powerful parts of who we are.