“You need to change your name to something simpler that people can pronounce” he said to me, after I had repeated my name for the umpteenth time, to one of his friends, like I had done, (and still do) so often. My husband was asking me to use a name that would be more ‘palatable’ for ‘other’ people; he was asking me to change the name that was my identity, for over three decades; my given birth name; the name I had inherited from my paternal grandmother, being the oldest of my father’s daughters, per the traditions of my people.
An ineffable rage seethed through me, though at the time, I concealed it well. That evening, I had a conversation with me, myself and I. I reflected on how he often corrected me in front of people, yet my audience perfectly understood what I was saying. Hosting friends at dinner once, he interrupted me to’ correct’ something I had just said. One guest, appearing exasperated, waved him aside saying “don't worry, I can perfectly understand what she is saying, you don’t have to interpret for me”. That moment became my small, private triumph; I resolved I wouldn’t change for others- neither my name nor my accent. I would be who I was and not attempt to fabricate myself into someone I was not. I was enough, complete, whole, just as I was.
Initially, when people inquired about my origins, I got amused; gradually, it became a vexation, being repeatedly asked the same questions. For instance, whenever I told people where I was from, the most annoying question was their response- inquiring if I knew their friend so and so, (from a completely different country) that they went to school with, etc. It was all I could do, not to ask them, in turn, if they knew all the neighbors on their street, let alone in their neighborhood- how then, did they expect me to know everyone from a different country? Eventually, I came to accept that I would always be considered 'other than '.
My resolve to maintain my identity was pegged on embarking on ‘educating people’, mostly to inform them that Africa is not a country, and no, there is no language called ‘African ‘and yes, we live in actual houses. That in fact, Africa is a continent, housing more than 54 countries, with multiple tribes in each country, each speaking a different language, (not dialect) each boasting a completely different culture from any other tribe in that country.
I resolved to fully embrace my identity- I no longer tried to speak English the ‘American way’- (’my pronunciations are British ‘I informed people when they corrected me)-I donned my colorful African clothing and jewelry proudly; I permanently wear a beaded bracelet made in the colors of the flag of my republic, and that proudly displays my country’s name- it has turned out to be a great icebreaker when I meet new people, both socially and at work.
For many years, I was reticent about displaying a sticker that bears a picture of the flag of my Republic on my license plate, hesitant of attracting attention to myself. I recently stuck it on, audaciously and with pride. When I thought about it later, it was silly, because every time people looked at me or I opened my mouth to speak and they detected an accent, I was already, unwittingly, and involuntarily, attracting attention to myself anyway.
My culture is quite different from this American culture in which I livem, but I am proud of it. True, I have borrowed and adopted many great virtues from America. Yet, having both feet in two worlds has helped flourish my thinking and has created in me a fresh perspective on life. I like who, and what I've become.
No longer vexed by people’s inquiries, I in fact find humor in little things when I talk to strangers. One humorous antidote I tell people who comment on my accent and tease me about my pronunciations is that I speak the real English, the Queen's English.
I recall telling someone that I spoke three languages; he was awed, and then asked me “What do you call a person who speaks three languages?” I responded “trilingual”. Then he asked, “What do you call a person who speaks two languages?” I dutifully answered “Bilingual”. Finally, he asked “What do you call a person who speaks one language?” Bemusedly wondering where this was leading to, but before I could spit out my answer, (which was going to be “Monolingual”), he blurted out “American!”. I thought that was hilarious as we both laughed out loud, more so because it was said by one who spoke only one language himself.
Thinking about that response later, I felt quite unique- that I speak not two, but three different languages, completely different from each other. Unique in that I have had the opportunity to live in three different continents and therefore, see people through a diverse lens than most; it’s my conviction that this gives me a compassion and a patience that many do not have. Some people are egocentric, harboring a narrow view of humanity, more so if they’ve never travelled, or interacted with others that do not look, or speak, or pray, like them. They tend to have a myopic, paranoid, perspective of other people, and life in general.
As for me, I am more than what you physically see- I’m more than my skin color, more than my un-American accent, more than my tight, curly hair-my identity is encompassed in so much more
Did you know that I’m a devoted mother, a loving sister, an engaging auntie, a dear friend, a compassionate caregiver, a mentor, a lover, an involved community member?
“Who are you?” you ask. I will tell you. “I am these and so much more! I am more than just meets your eye!”
This article was the first-place adult winner in the Exploring Identity writing contest, part of the 2025 Salem Reads: One Book, One Community program, which delved into the themes of Why Didn't You Tell Me? A Memoir by Carmen Rita Wong. The contest invited writers, in short story or personal essay form, to explore how identity has impacted them.