When you read the byline for this article, how did you pronounce my surname? Chances are, you worked through it phonetically, elongating the vowels as you went along. It’s well-intentioned, but categorically incorrect. Should it irk me as much as it does? Perhaps not – after all, ‘we’re in England, we speak English’ – but it does truly grind my gears to feel so detached from my own surname. It sometimes feels as though I have a double life: the name which connects me to my family, and the name I’m known by to doctors, colleagues, and even my college tutors. If you also find yourself in the ‘difficult-to-pronounce-name’ club, you might feel the same as I do.
When I matriculated in 2023, I felt the same mix of thrill and nerves as any fresher does. The imposter syndrome was slowly settling in, and I was eager to hear my name read loud and clear at my college’s traditional admissions ceremony. As the Dean waded through the alphabet, beckoning forth each anxious fresher, I reflected on my journey to Oxford: the first from my school to attend such a prestigious institution, the child of working-class parents, descended from recent economic migrants. I quite literally could not believe I was there, and my belief remained suspended as the Dean confidently called upon the Other Me. Such a pivotal moment found its place in the pattern of misunderstandings I am so used to.
Everyday occurrences are lifetime occurrences, and these uncomfortable situations are just that. Sporadic trips to the doctor are where the Other Me is most present, with my ears attuned to listen out for her name, rather than my own. It is somewhat demoralising to mentally assent to this name, telling the doctor, the barista, the panel interviewing me for a graduate job, that “yes, this is she”. Hearing my tutors mispronounce my name hits the hardest – they know my thoughts, inside and out, how my mind works, the embarrassing mistakes I make in my essays, but do they truly know me? The simple facts of my life, my identity? They are hardly at fault for making such a minor error, but I once again feel stuck, too stubborn not to let it affect me, but too afraid of being seen as pedantic that I rarely choose to correct them.
For the first twenty-odd years of my life, the spectre of the Other Me was little more than a minor inconvenience. But as I continue to mature and develop a professional career, my name has come to represent much more than the string of syllables I answer to. Greater opportunities often mean greater disclaimers – when I spoke at a conference last year, I had to awkwardly ask the host to pronounce my name correctly. This approach has the warning label that I might offend someone for possibly thinking them too stupid to pronounce it, but I also risk not being introduced by my actual name. Particularly in the journalism industry, having byline recognition is ever-important for building a reputation. Nevertheless, I am still overwhelmingly met with a chuckle and “I definitely would have pronounced it the Other Way”.
Growing up also means thinking about my future and all the things that come with it: career, children, and marriage. Do I change my name? Do I get rid of these insecurities once and for all? For the vast majority of human history, this would not even be a question, and my family name would pass from my father’s to my husband’s. In many ways, it is a privilege that I have the choice to be able to cherish the name I grew up with, warts and all.
But warts, they still are. The story is a common one: a non-English name, brought to England by those once under British rule, mispronounced by many, but representing the few who keep our history alive. While I complain endlessly about the problems brought on by my name, my grievances do not stretch far beyond the conceptual, and as a white woman, I certainly do not experience the racism and xenophobia that other people with the same problem often do. But the sentiment nevertheless remains, that our family names hold meaning, not only because we share them with those we love, but because they represent entire histories and peoples. Mine, in particular, is a rarity – I have never met anyone with this name that I am not related to.
Changing my name is not on the cards, at least for the foreseeable future. On the one hand, I am swayed by the desire to change and therefore be seen and understood on my own terms, as myself, but on the other hand, I would not have it any other way. For all its downsides, this lifetime occurrence is my lifetime occurrence, and it would not be my name if I didn’t have to spell it out every time I said it to someone new. ‘Being me’ means having this name, and I will make peace with it being unique, even if it means being a ‘Heegney’ instead of a ‘Heagney’.
