This is a fictional piece. Any similarity to actual persons or occurrences is purely coincidental.
You were five years old and was given the English name Mary because your parents believed their kid would have a brighter future if you obtained a comparative advantage from a young age such as speaking English and because it was in the 90s when English-speaking people still name their kids Mary or Majorie instead of cool names like Melody or Felicity and because it was your turn to pick a random name written on the blackboard by the English tutor that other kids in the class had not yet picked and because your parents do not speak English and had no idea which names are cool — not that they would think having a cool name mattered. You laughed about it now because you could have easily picked a name like Apple or Amber but luckily you did not. You have been carrying the name Mary around ever since, an American name, a symbol of hope, a stepping stone to a life outside the tedious yet comfortable living your parents built for you.
You opened the English textbook with worm-like characters in it. They are the different kind of worm from the ones in the other textbook – the one that your parents read to you before your bedtime. You focused on the pictures – the kids there have hair that is gold and eyes that are blue. The food looks nothing like what your mom cooked you. You repeated after the tutor, “How do you do? My name is [fill in the blank].” You practiced the same dialogue with your neighbors in the class. You sang “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” along with the tutor. You mom sat at the back of the classroom, looking at you, proudly, with a big smile on her face.
You joined primary school a year younger than most of your peers. The primary school only started to provide English class to students in the third grade, at which point you had been studying English for more than 4 years. You aced all English tests and gained comparative advantages academically just as your parents had predicted. You told your classmates and your English teacher your name was Mary and everyone started to call you Mary instead of your birth name because it was cool for kids to have an English name back then and because kids with English names seemingly had better chance making it out to the other side of the world unknown to start an adventure.
Your mom told you your birth name means taking things as they come. The way it is pronounced is elegant and sweet-sounding. The name fits you, albeit a bit too tender and romantic for your stubborn and rebellious character. The name is now the part of you that you throw away.
You wrote journals every day, addressed them to yourself, or your future self. These journals always started with “Dear Mary …” You told Mary that your mom bought you your first cassette of American country music. You were not crazy about the music, but the music somehow invoked an image in your mind that you had never seen yet were longing to see. You told Mary that you begged your mom to buy this expensive and heavy American travel book for you and you rushed home with the book and stared at Alaska and imagined being in the extremes all by yourself writing poetry about loneliness. You told Mary that you wanted to go to London Derry so bad the moment you heard the song “Danny Boy.” You told Mary everything in English so that even if your parents found the journals and wanted to have a peek, they would not have understood what was going on.
You eventually saw the wild world you and your childhood friends had imagined. You introduced yourself to the blue eyes and the blond hair that your name was Mary and got used to getting the response that “you do not look like a Mary … what’s your real name” and became indifferent to such reaction as they would call you Mary anyways since it was easier to pronounce and more receptive to the crowd. Mary is one of them; an average person with average personality and a background that was nothing unusual. Mary’s different complexion and ethnicity would not be noticed as long as Mary is called Mary instead of those difficult-to-pronounce ethnic names. Or so you thought.
You were convinced about it for a long time, throughout college, years abroad and graduate program. You had the best years of your life being Mary; you felt close to your peers in the so-called western society and they welcomed you with open arms. You and your peers shared similar tastes in music and film. Your friends liked the fact that there was little cultural gap despite that you were not originally from here. You wrote papers on illiberal democracies and human rights which your professor commended. You built a network of supporters and friends who encouraged and helped you get into the best art program in America. You could not be more proud of Mary. You knew Mary would become someone someday.
Surely during a short period of time in college, you began to realize how uncool the name “Mary” is and you started to think perhaps you should change it to Monica or Frances or something more hip. Eventually you gave it up because everyone in your circle knew you as Mary and changing the name would almost mean eradicating your whole existence.
Finally the time came when you needed to apply for a job. You were confident that someone with your caliber would get a job without sweat. While cheery and optimistic, you were not blind to embedded prejudices in the society which you knew would cost you an opportunity. You wrote the name Mary on your resume, with the hope that you would be treated as anyone else born and raised in the U.S., that you would not be marginalized, or worse, be put on a pedestal, that you would not be someone filling the diversity quota, or be sidelined into particular types of work “suitable” only for people from your particular “culture.” You finally got a job, not a bad one; but it was clear as day the reasons for your hire were any or all of the above.
You were upset. You tried to talk to your folks about it. But they were just happy that you were making a life on your own, a life better than many of your peers in your hometown or even in the U.S. would ever imagine; they were telling you that you should try to put things in perspectives. You responded with frustration and in a mixture of English and your native language that they were right and it was no big deal.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. You speak more than two languages. You maintain two different lifestyles depending on who are around at the time. You hold two different political views depending on who you are speaking with at the time. You have multiple circles of friends that do not mix because you know they would not get along. You feel not being recognized by either society — the one in which you were raised and the one in which you chose to live as an adult. You feel stuck in the middle. You don’t know who you are. You don’t know why you are here, or anywhere.
You finally quit your job, packed a bag, and bought a ticket to the West Coast. You know you likely will not be treated any differently there, but you at least give yourself a chance of do-over. At least now you are not Mary; for a minute you can feel like being yourself, or whoever you imagine yourself to be, despite the foreseeable burden of moving to a different city every few years.