“Kay-ho Maeda?” Teachers’ tongues stumble over the uncharted territory that is my name. Every year, my first few days of school are spent correcting teachers’ mispronunciations of my name. I don't mean to blame the teachers at all; I really do understand that in English, it is natural to say “Kay” when it is written “Ka.”

Living in a small town, I went to school with the same group of people from kindergarten to my senior year of high school. Everyone in my 125 person class knows that almost routinely, teachers mess up my name when taking attendance on those first couple days. Every time, my classmates laugh as if saying “And this teacher does it too – a swing and a miss.” So, year after year and teacher after teacher, I have trained myself to smile or giggle when yet another teacher butchers my name. But inside, my irritation began to slowly chip away at the love that I had always felt for my unique name given to me with love from my mother. She had chosen my kanji in hope that I would blossom like a flower and would choose my own path like a sail. 花帆. Yet, as my frustration rose, my affection for my mother country, half of my world, began to diminish.

This may seem like an irrelevant, minuscule problem. But in my world, this was a big problem, and it was mine to solve. My love for my first home, Japan, had faded, when in reality, I needed to be thankful for my diversity. I had become unwilling to accept my own identity. I hated having to talk to my mom in Japanese on the phone, and how I spent 6 hours of my Saturday in school.

Now, I have finally realized that my differences are unchangeable but unmatched in their worth. My Japanese ethnicity has opened up numerous doors for me. I have made friends at Japanese school, who I hope will be part of my life forever. I learned two languages, and embraced two cultures over the course of my life. Most importantly, I can actually eat my sushi with chopsticks. My name represents all those doors.

My name tells people that I am Japanese, and that I am different. I, with the help of society, had convinced myself that these were shameful adjectives. I had begun to buy into the belief that I had to fit in and so to do so, the first step for me was to hide my differences, or at least try as hard as I could. My lack of identity, or more accurately, my reluctance to accept my identity, seemed like an unsolvable problem.

But, I began to realize that not only am I Japanese and different, but that I should also be proud to be described in this way. My name represents this, and I love that now.

So, sorry to all my future professors who will have to take a stab at my name. Good luck, you probably need it.