Wait, is it Ma-lee-na? Ma-lah-nah? Oh hey Melanie!
My name is Malena Data Ernani. (Mah-leh-na Dah-tah Ehr-nah-nee). Born in Margarita Island, Venezuela, raised by a Chilean father and Argentinean mother in the suburbs of Northern California. When my name passes through my Mami or Papi's tongues, it feels right. When my name is said correctly, I feel at home. I feel just a little bit more alive, more there.
Growing up around mostly monolingual peers, I've always given them the anglicized version of my name -- Ma-layyy-nah. It feels comfortable on a monolingual English-speaking tongue. It's palatable. I was extremely embarrassed by my name all throughout elementary school. It was too different, not "American" enough and, for the most part, my friends could never really pronounce it correctly so I didn't bother fighting that battle. I could live with never seeing my name on those license plate souvenirs in touristy shops. I could get by with letting people take ownership over the value of my name because I didn't realize how important it really was. In essence, I let others render me invisible by calling me by a name that was never given to me.
Then last week, my younger cousin introduced me to her neighbors (who, by the way, were all about 5 years old). I introduced myself with my Anglo-name. My younger cousin's face had never looked so perplexed.
"That's not your name!" she said, horrified and betrayed. She was offended by how I had compromised my authenticity for others' comfort. A 3rd grader made me question my cultural identity in one sentence.
"That's not your name!"
So there I was, in front of some elementary school kids, my cheeks filled red with embarrassment. I quickly reintroduced myself, properly.
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To all my friends out there with beautiful names being butchered by monolingual tongues, I implore you to reintroduce yourself to this world. Let the monolingual tongue struggle with the rolled "r's", the silent letters, the linguistic journey that is your name.
Do not fear as your professor gets closer to your name during roll call. Say it loudly, proudly and repeat it over and over again until everyone can pronounce it in the same sweet honey-caramel way your mama says it.
Your name is a form of cultural resistance. It is a tool for decolonization. Your parents' accents are the remnants of your family's unique melody, of your shared song. There are those who will tell you that your English isn't good enough, that your name is not American enough, that your tongue is not fit for communicating in this world. It's those monolingual tongues that are too scared to travel to your foreign name that will never experience the extraordinary sounds that make you special.
You can spend your entire life trying to find ways to make who you are comfortable for everyone else. In fact, you can spend too many years calculating just how much of parts of your identity to show at a time. For some it's a choice and for others, it's a means of survival. But surviving isn't living and "that's not your name."
So go out there and make some people uncomfortable. Ruffle some feathers and twist some tongues. Force your teachers to pronounce your name correctly, because it can affect your future success. Be unabashedly you, tildes, accents and all.
