I am an African American female. I have natural hair that I usually wear in very short twists or very long Marley twists, depending on how I’m feeling. I do not wear makeup. If you were to walk up to me on my college campus and introduce yourself, these are the pieces of information that you would be able to gather about me in a matter of seconds without making assumptions. You would not see or be able to assume that I like astronomy or that I love murder mysteries. (Although you’d be correct.) You would not be able to see or assume that I study classical music as well as public policy at one of the greatest public institutions in the United States (Although you’d be correct… Go Tar Heels!). You definitely would not be able to see or assume that I'm interested in mindfulness culture. (Although you’d be correct, once again) All you would know is what you see when a young black woman who looks like me is standing before you.

Now imagine that we’re having a conversation. Can you guess my name? What comes to mind when you picture me in your head? I won’t give it away just yet. This is obviously a rhetorical question and I’m sure there will be a ton of different responses ranging from “Tonya” to “Renee” to “how the heck am I supposed to know?” All of that is fair because nothing that I’ve told you about me so far is indicative of my name… right?

So let me give you some real-life examples of names that I’ve been called that are nowhere near my own: Aneeka, Imari, Kiara, Aliyah, etc. All of them are very “ethnic” sounding, all of them are very beautiful, and all of them are not my name. In one example, I’d been one of the only African American girls in a college class. Aneeka was the other girl. There was me: average height, brown skinned, big curly hair, and always clad in t-shirts and shorts during my freshman year. Then there was her: shorter than me, light skinned, long straight hair, usually very well dressed and fashionable. I’d been conversing with my professor since day one about getting the help that I knew I would need for that class. She was very kind and patient with me despite the fact that I came to class early almost everyday for the first two months to ask her questions. On this particular day, class had been in session for a good three weeks. I came in early as usual and the professor was fussing over the fact that she had yet to discern everyone’s names. I waited my turn for her to guess feeling confident that she knew me well enough by this point. When she finally got to me she pressed her lips together and squinted her eyebrows as if she had forgotten me already. “You’re Aneeka, right?” Then there was silence.

I should note at this point that I never quite know how to respond to these scenarios. This was not the first time that an incident like this has occurred, nor was it the last. Especially in grade school, substitute teachers or new teachers would always stumble with my name. Growing up in classes with majority white or Asian American students, I was used to being the “token black female” which meant that my name had to be a specific type of name, especially if there was more than one black person in the class and I happened to be the first. “Let me guess,” a substitute once said, “It’s the Imari I have on the roster, right?”

I could brush it off and say that their assumptions are not indicative of my race, but that would be illogical because there is no other factor about myself that would place me in the “ethnic” category except that of my race. Until I open my mouth and allow others to get to know me, their perception of me is limited to what they see. That is a normal function of society and a very dangerous one for me should I ever be caught in a situation where something more important than my name is called into question.

I am not writing this to say that I do not wish to be assumed of bearing an ethnic name because I am ashamed. On the contrary, I spent many years wishing that I had a different name and grew up with two loving parents who taught me about African history and our family so that I would know where I come from. I always felt that my name was too plain and not at all indicative of my outgoing personality until I looked into it’s meaning and understood why someone would choose the name for their child. The “ethnic” names are not the issue, but the assumption based on my ethnicity is the issue. In a matter of seconds, someone determines that who I am does not align with who they perceive me to be and that who I am must therefore be negated or at the very least that their assumption about me was harmless and not at all abrasively intrusive. It’s just name right? Who cares? “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

The harm, however, is the ease of assumption. I’ve had conversations go from “harmless” inquiries about my opinion on Future’s album (I do not listen to Future) to grandiose offenses made in reference to my knowledge about academia. (I was accepted into every college I applied to and graduated high school with a 3.9 GPA around the time that particular conversation took place.) I don’t aim to brag or promote myself in this piece, but if it is possible for someone to make assumptions about minor details in my life that are inaccurate and irrelevant how much more plausible would it be for people to make wrong assumptions in highly dangerous situations?

I won’t post statistics here because I live it. I don’t need the statistics to tell me what I and other members of my community go through and I implore you to read this article with as much empathy as you can muster in your heart even if you are never capable of truly understanding.

I don’t say these things to point fingers because I know that there will be those who will feel defensive and will point to exceptions. Yes, those exceptions exist. They’re great because that is how life is supposed to be! However, for me and the members of my community and my family around this country, that is not a consistent reality. Our reality is having people blare loud hip hop music in our faces when we ride in a car with them because they think that is we're listen to or having people touch our hair without permission because they’ve never seen our Marley Twists or having people tell me that I’m pretty for “black girl” instead of just being attractive to them because of who I am as a person or having people become strangely comfortable with me and saying “Hey girlfriend!” and “Honey, yes!” as they snap their fingers and roll their necks whenever I walk into a room or... having people tell me that my name is not my name.

Once again, if my name were “black,” I would be proud. By pointing out the assumption, I wish to make no implication that a name is forced to belong to a race although the names that people refer to as “black” are strong and powerful. Name is meant to be interchangeable with personality, character, and worthiness in other, more tragic situations around the country. I was not blessed with a name descended from my culture or “seemingly so” because instead my parents honored me with a different name…

The silence in the room after my professor addressed me with the wrong name was nothing short of palpably awkward. However, anyone who knows me knows that I have a bad habit of being blunt. I straightened my shoulders and said, “No ma’am. My name is Kristen.” She blinked a few times as if shocked that I was bold enough to correct her or shocked that she had forgotten after all this time. I could feel the people nervously shifting around us gauging both my reaction and hers. The professor collected herself and smiled before holding out her hand “Well then, Kristen,” she said, ”It’s very nice to meet you.”

Kristen -- the anointed, follower of Christ. (Thank you, Mom!)