Hello, My Name Is

“Hello, My Name Is...” originated from my late night musings about what name(s) mean to the people who hold them. What started out as a curiosity to learn about people’s stories through their names became a gratifying and grounding journey that attempts to capture the complexities of the Asian American/Asian international identity. Names speak volumes—not just because your name is how you introduce yourself, but also because your name is what most things about you are constructed upon. It speaks to what others think of you, who you see yourself as, and it is an active noun of doing and being, in the past, in the present, and in the future. And so “Hello, my name is...” hopes to acknowledge the somewhat predestined nature of our names, to amplify our understanding of who we are today, and to recenter ourselves in our personal narratives of self-exploration.

— Janus

Janus Wong & Taylor Gee

Edited by Gabor Fu Ptacek | Designed by Joy Yi Lu Freund

Heejae | 희재

Hi, I’m Heejae. I go by she/her. I’m a sophomore psych major.

Johnson | 庄森

I’m Johnson, I use he/ him/his. I’m a senior math major.

Tamika | 民力

I’m Tamika Chin Whitenack, I use she/her. I’m a senior Environmental Studies major, Education correlate. I’m half Chinese American, quarter Japanese American, quarter white.

Seowon | 서원

Hi I’m Seowon, I use she/ her pronouns. I am a first year.

I’m Gabor Fu Ptacek, I use he/him pronouns, third year, majoring in Computer Science and Chinese. Gabor | 家寶

Khanh | Khanh

I’m Khanh Le, I use she/ her and I’m Vietnamese; CompSci major, class of 2024. My name in Vietnamese is Lê Lan Khanh. In my country it’s last name then first name.

Gabor | 家寶 In Taiwanese, the way you say 家寶, my Chinese name, is Ga-bo (anglicized). My mom didn’t want me to face discrimination from a hyphenated name like she did. Gabor is also a Hungarian name, so I get asked about whether I’m Hungarian a lot. Fu is my mom’s last name and Ptacek is my dad’s last name. As for my full name, my initials are G.F.P., which stands for “green fluorescent protein” in biology, and my parents use that in their lab. They have posters covered with my initials, but they didn’t realize until I was in 4th grade.

I don’t know “Fu” in Taiwanese as my mom didn’t teach me the language. I’ve always wanted to learn it since I was a kid, but she says it’s the language for her and her sisters.

家寶 means the treasure of the family, which I appreciate, and it’s very cute! But I’m sometimes shy or embarrassed about the name, and I wonder that it might be really weird when I’m an adult and I introduce myself to other people. I think my mom knew that I was going to be an only child, so she didn’t have to worry about one kid being named the treasure of the family and another kid being named something else.

Heejae | 희재

I’m Korean, and in Korean culture there's this tradition where you visit a name-maker of our grandparents’ generation. Since each character in a traditional Korean name has a certain weight, name-makers help discern if a name reaches equilibrium, so the individual can lead a “balanced” life. It’s a tradition deeply rooted in philosophy and the historical origin of names. My parents consulted a name-maker before I was born. 희재 (Heejae) has two parts: 희 (Hee) and 재 (Jae). 희 means joy or happiness, and 재 is a verb, which means “bringing onto others,” or a carrier of joy and happiness. So together, it means that I spread happiness or joy to others.

Another deciding factor for my name is the Korean practice in which you share half of your name with your sibling. My older brother’s name is 윤재 (Yunjae), and we share the “재” part of our names. Though, it’s not a practice that’s always observed, because some siblings have completely different names.

Certain Korean last names can have reputations or stereotypes. It doesn’t apply to the individual, but it’s a fun thing that gets tossed around. I think my last name 정 (Jung) might have a reputation of being stubborn, or sticking to one path.

Tamika | 民力 I’m Chinese, Japanese, and white. My parents really wanted both my sister and I to have our entire cultural heritage in our names. They wanted to give us Japanese first names because we were going to get our dad’s last name, Whitenack, which is German. Our middle name, which is our mom’s maiden name Chin, is Chinese.

I think my older sister’s name, Mariko, means clear truth. They were looking through a book of Japanese baby names, and they decided on Tamika for me, even though Tamiko is the more traditional version. Many Japanese names end in “ko” because “ko” means child. Because my sister is Mariko, they decided to name me Tamika to distinguish the ending sounds.

My parents chose particular characters for my name which mean “child of the people.” I really like this meaning because I interpret this in two ways. I feel that I’m a child of the people in

that I have been raised and loved by a lot of people—kind of that sentiment that it takes a

village to raise a child. I also see it as responsibility. As a child of the people, I’m here to serve the people and do something greater in the world, hopefully.

Seowon | 서원

My parents don’t really call me by my name; they say “ya”, which is “yo” in Korean, and my grandparents call me 강아지 (kangaji), which is “puppy” in Korean. So I never hear it in the correct pronunciation unless a Korean person outside of family is talking to me. I feel a bit annoyed with my name in the more Americanized pronunciation, because whenever I enter a new space, I feel that I have to pronounce my name in a really Americanized way for people to understand what I’m saying. If I said it in a Korean pronunciation, no one would say it correctly. My parents never expected for us to live in America, so they never gave me an American name or a Korean name that’s easier to pronounce. Whenever people say my name, a part of me feels like it’s not my name, just how people recognize me. It feels like I never had a name.

A part of me wonders why we put a strong emphasis on our names—it’s not a big deal to change them. They’re just labels. People used to make fun of my name, but not in a mean way, more so because they thought I was close with them. They would call me “swan” or “swannie.” I guess it’s good to be associated with a “swan,” which is a majestic bird.

Johnson | 庄森 My name is tied to my experience of learning Chinese. I actually did not enjoy learning Chinese, and I would do whatever was easier for me. Originally my name was 庄生 (Zhuang1 Sheng1 - 生 here means “life”), but when I was learning Chinese in first grade, I realized that my last name 林 was made up of 2 trees (木), and there was a word with 3 trees (森), which sounds like “sen.” So I told my mom “This is so much easier! I just have to remember that Lin is 2 trees, and Sen is 3 trees!” And that was how I changed my name.

When I was studying in Beijing, I didn’t bother telling people my Chinese name, I just asked them to call me Johnson. They would just laugh if I told them my Chinese name is 庄森, because it sounds a bit more awkward and not something you would normally hear in Chinese. It’s just not worth it to explain the story behind my name all the time, so I simply go by Johnson. It’s unfortunate, because I do like my name. I have an attachment to the 庄 part of my name because I grew up with my mom’s side in America, and my dad’s side stayed mostly in China.

Tamika | 民力 I definitely associate my name with family. I don’t connect with my white heritage at all because I have no living white relatives. It’s kind of weird how I have this white part of my name, but I don’t have a strong connection to it. That’s not to negate the fact that I have proximity to whiteness. I think it’s interesting that it’s there in a structural, legal way, whereas the two other parts of my name were more intentional. We get our last name largely because that’s how the legal system works. But our middle and first names are intentional gifts of Japanese and Chinese culture.

My sister says when certain people say her name like “Mariko,” it feels safe. Part of that is they pronounced it correctly, but I also think it’s this element of knowing that we're shared family. I definitely experienced that as well with my first name. Even though it’s often hidden, I like having my Chinese middle name. It’s a connection to my mom’s side of the family, since Chin is my grandpa’s last name.

Seowon | 서원

When I was younger, I didn’t have experiences or much of a personality, so my name was what identified me. As I grew up and started to become more of an individual, my name started to lose its meaning. I became more of a person than something with a name. People started to create connotations of who I am based on our interactions and called me more by nicknames than my actual name. In high school, people would call me “bad bitch” instead of 서원. When reading my name on school posters, no one could actually pronounce it. People associate me more with how they see my name pronounced in their heads, not really with the way that it’s supposed to be pronounced. They think they can’t connect with me on a more personal level because my name sounds so foreign and gender-neutral. I appreciate how my name lacks meaning, because you can only reveal my identity by getting to know me.

Heejae | 희재

It is a reflection of how I got more comfortable being in my own skin. Now, I’m proud of my name. Now, I’m kind of desensitized to the first days of classes where professors alway say “sorry if I mispronounce your name, but…” I don’t fault them—I’m pretty sure I’ve probably mispronounced another person’s name.

I’m Korean American and keeping my Korean name keeps a part of my Asian identity with me everywhere. Your name is something that you always say, and it’s the first thing that people know about you when you meet them. It’s a reminder to myself of these two cultures that are within me.

Something I realized when I was in elementary school was how there were multiple Clares or Janes or Emilys, but there was only one Heejae.

At first I thought my name was cool, but later I thought it was kind of annoying. I would always have to repeat my name and some people still didn’t get it, so that’s when I decided to let it slide. Sometimes it felt like a barrier to getting to know people—maybe they just see my name before they see me.

I’m fine with both pronunciations of my name, but they give me different vibes. The American way is very common and daily for me. On the flip side, if someone pronounces my name in the Korean way, I feel unexpectedly happy. It makes me feel like I’m closer to you just because I’m used to hearing that pronunciation from family and close friends. I really don’t have a preference; I’m okay with both.

Khanh | Khanh

Emotionally, strong. Khanh is used for both boys and girls in Vietnam. Part of it means strength. That’s how I think of myself and how others see me, as someone with a very strong personality.

I think I’m strong because of what I’ve gone through. My father passed away last April; it’s something that I never expected to happen because he passed away so suddenly. I don’t cry a lot, but I cried for that whole month. I still managed to do what I had to do. When I’m in the US, I don’t suffer from homesickness. Nothing can defeat me. That’s why I think I’m strong.

4. The S21 Portrait theme envisions “playgrounds” as spaces for experimentation and growth. Playgrounds embody the joy of imagination and the nostalgia of childhood. How do your name(s) remind you of who you have become today (your past)? How do you see the interaction of your two name(s)/ identities as a “playground”—a space for potential and creativity (your future)?

Gabor | 家寶 In the future, there’s just a lot of thinking about change. I’m thinking about switching my last name to my mom’s last name because of a rocky relationship with my dad. I would no longer be “green fluorescent protein”, which is a tragedy, but some sacrifices have to be made. I’ve also thought about making my name hyphenated. It makes me uncomfortable as a person who advocates so much for Asian American movements to know that my name was purposefully anglicized and made suitable for a white community, so I thought about changing it to “Ga-bo” or “Gabo.” Who knows how much changing my name will impact my identity or the way I see myself?

For the “past” part of the question, my name has always underscored my multifaceted, multiracial identity, and my Asian American identity. I’ve always had a lot of silly stories about my name, for all the different backgrounds they come from. I feel like as I grew up, having these names helped me understand both sides of my identity, but, as I got older, I learned that I still needed to carve out that space for myself, which is something I’ve definitely experienced at Vassar, with ASA (Vassar Asian Students’ Alliance), VASAM (Vassar Asian American Studies Working Group), and Portrait.

Johnson | 庄森 My Chinese name is a reminder of who I was as a kid—just so American. As a kid I didn’t really embrace my Chinese culture—I didn’t want to learn the language. It’s reflected in my name—the fact that I changed my name because I thought it would be easier for me to remember, and the fact that it’s a very American name.

Now, I like my name because of the connection I have with my mom’s side. During my late high school and early college years especially, I wished I had a real Chinese name instead of a transliteration because it’s so annoying to tell people about it. Not just native speakers, but sometimes non-Chinese speakers find it funny when I tell them that my Chinese name is just my English name.

Although I feel more connected to my Chinese identity now, I still don’t use my Chinese name. If someone asks me, I won’t say “I don’t have a Chinese name,” but when I introduce myself, I don’t introduce myself in Chinese as 庄森; I just say I’m Johnson. I don’t think that will ever change; it’s just easier.

Khanh | Khanh My name isn’t just my name. It’s associated with my family, my relationship with my parents and my siblings. I love it when I hear my parents call my name. When I think of my name, all I can think of is my family.

I miss the way my father would pronounce my name. I haven’t heard his voice, calling my name, for one year already. We have a lot of family videos of my father, but I don’t have any of them in which my father pronounces my name. I miss it.

I feel my name is the whole value that parents have put into me over the past 18 years, and it’s a way to remind me to believe in my core values and to continue to grow without forgetting my roots and what they’ve been teaching me for these 18 years.

I’m touched, honored, humbled, and internally tearing up, all at once. I wasn’t sure what to expect going into this “Hello, my name is...,” and ultimately, I was blown away by the stories that were shared with us. It was such an enriching experience to hear other people talk about their names. It got me thinking about how I’m perceived and my own Asian American identity. I want to treat the gifts I’ve been given with care, and I hope we’ve done them justice with this piece.

— Taylor