My name is Amy, although I have always thought that the French spelling “Aimee” looked prettier. When people ask me about how I got it, I have this story I love to tell.
My parents are some of the most decisive people on the planet. I’m fairly convinced that they just opened the baby name book, saw the name “Amy,” and then proceeded to close the book.
When October 30th rolled around and I made my first appearance on this planet, the nurse asked them what my middle name would be. My parents were confused. “What is a middle name?” They asked.
I imagine the nurse must have said something like, “It’s another name you name your daughter.” My parents thought long and hard in that hospital room in Virginia, and continued to fill out my birth certificate.
“M.”
Yes, my middle name is one letter. They have no reason for “M;” it was a purely spontaneous decision.
I have a lot of pride that my name is strangely short. I shave off a lot of time bubbling in my information on standardized tests. It’s hard to misspell. There’s a lot of empty space on my Duke card. Best of all, I always have a fun fact for awkward icebreakers.
I never really thought much about it until I got to Duke. Many of my Asian-American friends have an American first name, a name that doesn’t stand out on a roll call or trip anyone up at a nametag networking event. Others have their English alias as their middle name, but their first name is in their family’s native language, reminiscent of their origins and a constant reminder of where they came from.
So why do parents choose their children’s names? I think for a lot of Americans, the choice is driven by its sound. Meaning comes second.
But for Asian families, meaning is just as important as sound. Typically, names are hopes. Just like how some English names are virtues—Grace, Hope, Patience—most Chinese names are derived from abstract nouns or descriptions that are supposed to indicate some kind of wish for your child. Long life. Lifelong happiness. Dreams come true.
But I don’t have a Chinese name. Not even a non-legal nickname. My older sister has a Chinese name, and even a Chinese nickname. My family back in China addresses me as “Amy,” as best as they can in their thick accents, or just refer to me as “the little one.”
Does this mean that my parents have no forward-looking wishes for me because they neglected to give me a Chinese name? Not only did they not give me one, but they were also presented a prime, second opportunity in that emergency room after my birth. And they didn’t because they never considered coming up with one for me.
I’ve come to realize that the absence of a Chinese name speaks volumes more about their expectations for me than any real name they could have given me.
I’m enrolled in a great house course about Asian-American history. Our course instructor, the ever-inquisitive Christine Lee, showed us one of my favorite spoken word poetry pieces by a young woman whose biological Korean parents did not give her a name. It was her adopted, American parents who gifted her “Rachel.”
My parents gave me “Amy” because it sounded as American to them as baseball and apple pie. To have given me “Amy” and nothing else implies that my parents wished for me to be American first and foremost. Considering that my parents omitted a Chinese name, I have never been to Chinese school, and even was encouraged to have more “American friends,” I can’t help but feel that my Chinese parents would rather me limit the “Chinese-ness” I embody.
I love my name. It’s a reminder of all of the gifts that my parents have given me after having given up everything, emigrating from the only place they knew as home, and shouldering financial burdens to put a roof over our heads. It was all to bring our family to the land of opportunity that this nation represents for so many immigrant families.
My parents ended up actually giving me a name that was a promise about what they wanted for me: their daughter to become American. It would be easier for me to assimilate and succeed, they believed, if I had a white-sounding first name.
And it’s funny because they’re not the only ones. I know so many other Asian women named “Amy” and even another “Amy Wang” right here at Duke. While I can’t speak to the reasons why other expecting Asian parents give their children American names, I can’t help but speculate that assimilation is a large contributing factor.
Assimilation is not bad. In fact, I believe some degree of assimilation is truly necessary to survive here at Duke, if not within the rest of the country. But I can't help but question whether or not my name is an indication of how much I should be willing to give up whatever claim I have of being “Chinese” in order to be more “American.” My name is just one example where my Asian-American identity is more Asian vs. American, and it is a zero sum game.
My name—the front-facing image of who I am as a person, the first thing I use to identify myself—is incredibly short. But it shoulders both the history of my parent’s struggles to get here and their biggest wish for their American daughter. I am beyond lucky for all they have given for me, but I can't help but wonder about the true weight of the cultural implications of what they decided not to give me.
Amy Wang is a Trinity senior. Her column runs on alternate Tuesdays.
Get The Chronicle straight to your inbox
Signup for our weekly newsletter. Cancel at any time.
Amy Wang is a Trinity senior. Her column runs on alternate Thursdays.