"Call Me by My Name"

I can remember having anxiety about the first day of school as early as the second grade. Not anxiety about the late-night bedtimes coming to an end. Not anxiety about saying bye to Ma as she drove off in the minivan. Not anxiety about who I would sit with at lunch. The flittering in my tummy and sweaty palms all had to do with my name.

On that very first day, parents and kids would cram into the gym for class assignments. The Principal would welcome everyone, and teachers would come up and announce who was in their classes. 

And I waited, and waited. I waited for that moment…

“Maa..” stammering. 

“Ma? Di?” More stammering. 

“Ma-hoo?” Pause. The last attempt.

A final exasperated sigh from the teacher, who looked around, completely frustrated.

I would run up to the front, waving frantically. “That’s ok, that’s ok.  Just call me Mita.” 

I felt the need to make sure that they were comfortable. With me. With my name. I didn’t bother to teach them how to pronounce it.  I just chopped it. 

Because my full name is Madhumita Mallick. Many people don’t know that. Because I have spent much of my life trying to hide it.

In the third grade, my teacher couldn’t pronounce Mita, never mind the full name, and thought it would be fun to call me Pita. Like pita pockets, she said.

In junior high school, a girlfriend suggested “Why not go with Mad? It rhymes with Rad!”

In high school, they started saying Me-Ta (big emphasis on the Ta.) To this day, if anyone pronounces my name, Mee-Tha, I don’t turnaround. 

In college, my closest friends gave me the nickname Mahu after the Calculus Professor called me Mahu Mallick. He didn’t want to be corrected.

“Honestly, go by Mita Mallick,” the career counselor coached me, red-lining the name on my resume.   “No one can pronounce this, you won’t get call backs.” 

It was my name. My full name. And I wanted to reclaim it. That’s what my expensive liberal arts education taught me- to embrace me! So why wouldn’t they embrace my full name?

Madhumita Mallick was in my college yearbook. Madhumita was on the extravagant banner during our engagement party. Madhumita was on our wedding invite.

At my first corporate job, I found myself back to those first days of school. Madhumita Mallick. It was simply too confusing for people.

“I thought your name is Mita? I can’t find you in the distribution list.”

“Yeah, I walked around looking for you, didn’t see Mita on any of the cubes.”

“Why don’t you just go by Mita?”

And my manager. Who thought he had the best suggestion.

“Mohammed!”

And from the moment on, he called me Mohammed. Why? Because he wanted to.

“Mohammed, did you pull that Nielsen data the team asked for?”

“Mohammed, can you join us for the 4pm call?”

“Mohammed, make sure the agency knows to dial in for the kick-off.”

I responded to that name close to a year, a name that wasn’t even mine. And then, I left. Wishing I just once had said: Call me by my name. 

At every single job since then, it was Mita. In email. In org. charts. In the system. In any place at work where names mattered. For all “the areas of opportunity” I worked on to have a successful career in Corporate America, I am reminded of my name. On my passport. On my driver’s license. On our wedding album.

When I was expecting our son, we decided to name him Jayant, after my husband’s uncle. Minutes after giving birth, still overloaded on drugs, I whispered to my husband, “Jay. Let’s just call him Jay.” 

It was too late. My husband had sent the texts announcing the arrival of Jayant. 

“Jayant,” my son says defiantly. “My name is Jayant,” he reinforces when at the doctor’s office. At school. Introducing himself, helping others pronounce his name. He’s not about to sacrifice his name to make anyone else feel comfortable. 

My 5-year-old reminds me that we should all be given the dignity of having people pronounce our names correctly. Whether it’s one syllable like, Jenn (note the two n’s) or my name is which multi-syllable. Because in our name is the start of our journeys. Given to us by those who have big dreams of where our journeys will take us.

After so many years of being known as Mita, I don’t think I will ever reclaim my full name. And while sometimes I have moments of nostalgia, I am okay with that. Because I love the person Mita has become. And I love the name Mita Mallick.

And while I won’t go back to Madhumita at work. Here’s what I will do.

I’ll bring in egg curry for lunch. I’ll show you pictures of my kids. I’ll wear my Indian bangles proudly. I’ll tell you I am bilingual.  I’ll let you know I don’t prefer beef. I'll tell you I am an American.  I’ll wear my hair long. I’ll tell you that I am off for Diwali.  I’ll tell you that I am also off for Christmas and Easter.  I’ll wear mehndi on my hands.  I’ll tell you if you mispronounce my name. And I’ll tell you if you mispronounce anyone else’s name too.

And in case you are wondering, my full name, well, it’s pronounced Ma-Doo-Me-Tha.