I wish my parents
Gave me a Cantonese name,
Steeped in meaning and tradition,
History and culture.
A name, that could tell the story I didn't know, couldn't know
Maybe then
People wouldn't question my heritage,
As if a name alone is pause for thought
Because surely
My name and looks should match -right?
Maybe then,
My white father would have had to learn
At least one phrase in my native tongue
Instead of half arsing every syllable,
Hiding behind 'not being good' at languages,
When if he tried he could do it.
Maybe then
When someone asks
The meaning behind my name
I could respond with words instead of a shrug,
My entire history summed up
In two characters.
Maybe then
My brother would
Have worn his race with pride
Instead of denouncing it
Instead of being embarrassed by it.
But instead
They gave me
The 24th most popular name
The year I was born.
Instead
They gave me a generic first name
To go with my generic last name.
Instead
They gave me a name
I could hide behind
A name that let me fade
Into the background.
And sure,
They also gave me two Cantonese middle names,
Chosen by my Goong.
But they became an afterthought,
Reduced to intials, hidden on paperwork.
So the next time
Someone asks what my name means,
I'll just shrug.
Afterall, it's better than admitting
I was named after a co-worker
Because she was
Nice.
~april 2019
