What's in a Name?

Moving to a different country, especially when moving out of choice, means a ton of adjustments. In the United States, that means that you have to either learn English or change the way in which you already speak English. Not always easy to do, grumbles Tom Greaney, and the chances of making ghastly gaffes abound. Reading his article, I chuckled at some of the familiar unfamiliarities of my life, c. 1992. And enjoyed all the carping and criticism in the comments section.

As for me, after twenty years of living here, I have learned to change the manner in which I use English words and spell them. Really, is there any point in writing "candour", "colour" and "programme" when you know that if spellcheck does not catch them, a well-meaning colleague or friend will? And after all, if you are the one to move, then you are the one who has to adapt. En France, on parle français, n'est ce pas? And besides, unlike the commenters in the article cited above, I actually like America and enjoy my life here (and please note, this is not an either/or situation - I don't hate India in order to like America or vice versa). So, speaking as the natives speak not only makes my life easier, it is a gesture of accommodation and respect to the land I now call home.

There is one part of the original me that I refuse to give up, though - my name. While Englishmen like Tom Greaney see their native inflections as a point of identity, my sticking point is my multi-barrel, grand old Sanskrit name. And this refusal to change my name in the old tradition of American immigration history goes to a much deeper core than simply the ebbs and flows of immigrant acculturation.

I grew up as a Third Culture Kid, i.e. although Bengali, my army brat life ensured that my childhood and adolescence was outside Bengal, in Punjab, Sikkim, Maharashtra, and so on. Names like mine are common in middle-class Bengali circles that take great pride in the classical Sanskrit roots of Bengali culture. In other parts of India, more cheerfully middle-brow, I've had jolly secretaries suggest that "Chal, tujhe naa hum Sherry bulayengein." ("How about we just call you 'Sherry' "). I resisted all such name-changing. And so, I grew up hearing it mangled and mispronounced outside my home state, so much so that I gave up expecting to hear it pronounced the same way twice in a day. But there was another reason that I refused to change it. In the ever-changing kaleidoscope of my army childhood, against the backdrop of changing state languages and vehicle licence plates, my pure Sanskrit name was the one constant - it stood unchanged through all the moves, east to west, north to south, across nine schools, one college and one graduate school.

My dentist here in Fairfield County asked me once why I kept such a very long Indian name, as he peered over my account information in his office. "My grandparents were immigrants from Russia," he chuckled. "But we learned to change our names so we blended in better. You should do that too. Just pick a nice American name and you're on your way." How do I explain? My name and I have been "outsiders" well before my American sojourn. I'm used to faces turning pale when they hear my name, anyway. Besides, I'm proud of its epic roots, and the specific story behind it (sorry, can't share it but it's one of the oldest stories in the Mahabharata). I've assimilated in all the ways that matter to me - working, paying taxes, becoming a soccer mom.  And, I'm not turning myself into a Denise or a Stephanie or....a 'Sherry'.