What's in a name?

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet.”

Act 2 Scene 2 of Romeo and Juliet is immortalised in our literature.

Juliet’s overarching argument is that a name is meaningless. If a rose had any other name, it would still be the same; and by that virtue, Romeo would still be the same beautiful young man even if he had a different name.

I’ve always loved Romeo & Juliet; but there is a fundamental flaw which stands out for me - a rose by any other name simply does not have the same power, symbolism, significance, identity and heritage that we have come to associate with the rose. Names have meaning; they carry weight and they signify who we are.

In a multicultural Britain, we indulge in celebrities, who give their children unusual names, we learn to pronounce Djokovic, Tchaikovsky, Michelangelo, and Dostoyevsky, and these names roll off our tongues fluently and accurately.

Yet to pronounce Nyeche or Nduka correctly (even after I’ve pronounced it several times) often seems like the hardest thing in the world. Some people look uncomfortable as they see this unfamiliar name, some chuckle awkwardly after reading or saying my name out aloud, others say “Oh, I am no good at foreign names”, or “I think I am going to get this wrong.”

What is the trigger of discomfort, the resistance to specific foreign names?

While I should feel no guilt, I often have (as do many of us black Britons), because often we feel responsible for creating such awkward encounters and uncomfortable situations for others. For the longest time, it has felt that by giving into that pressure to conform and allowing my name(s) to be ‘butchered’, I am somehow making life easier for others.

As a 15 year old, I remember one particular holiday with my family. Some kids of the same age asked me if they could shorten my name to ‘Nye’ as my name was just too difficult to pronounce. I went along with it and just introduced myself as such to any new person because it felt more convenient and sociable.

I have been ‘Nye’ ever since.

Stories like these are as old as time. You can even argue they too are immortalised in our literature through a desire to separate the individual from their identity. After all, in Act 2 Scene 2, Juliet goes on further to say if you denounce your name, in exchange for that name, which is not really a part of what you are, you can have all of me – all of what you desire.

That is exactly how it has felt - like the right to my name was a concession I had to make. A tax to pay for a chance to have a seat at the table; a chance to get the things I desire. There is a dichotomy about changing names; whether it’s changing your name to fit in socially, or anglicising your name for better recruitment opportunities or career progression, or avoiding negative terrorist-related connotations around your name, many of us have done it.

It is common knowledge that Barack Obama used ‘Barry’ while he was growing up, and I know countless friends and family who have an ‘English’ (or anglicised) name while maintaining their traditional name for family and communities.

As time goes by, I am learning that the trigger of discomfort, the resistance to and the changing of people's names has a racialized history. It's grounded in slavery and it has roots in the empire. There is a lot of history that's tied to this practice that is directly tied to racism.

The reality is that my name is my identity, and allowing people to mispronounce it, say it wrongly, reduce it, has the impact of stripping me of part of that identity.

This history and realisation is painful even though it seems so far in the past. This is because the issue of whether people choose to change their name is about getting their foot in the door, whatever that door represents.

I have children now. Two boys, who carry my surname, have Nigerian middle names and do so with pride. To listen to them pronounce their full names (even as young as they are) fills me with a sense of joy and excitement.

Yet, they know no better and nor should they. The thought of them having to adjust a part of who they are, fills me with a different trigger of discomfort – because the names we gave to them are significant to our family, our culture and us as their parents.

A lesson I want to teach my kids, one that I would share, is that if you acknowledge my name, you pay me a subtle compliment; you indicate that I have made an impression on you.

Acknowledge my name and you add to me feeling important.

So to go back to Act 2, Scene 2 – what’s in a name? Everything.