My name is Alex. A straightforward name, right? You’d think so, but that’s not how it often plays out. To many, it seems surprising that my name isn’t spelled as Alix, Alik, or even Jawn. And please, let’s not get started on the variations like Jhon or Jaan. I mean, really? How did that even become a thing? I’m fairly certain no other “Alex” has experienced this level of name confusion.
When people first meet me, there’s an odd disconnect. Sure, my beard might complicate things a bit. I’m no stranger to additional screening at airports, thanks to the TSA’s “random” checks. It’s a common occurrence for me. Yet, it’s like people’s minds can’t quite reconcile what they see and hear. They seem to think: “This guy looks too different to be named Alex. He must be an Ali, or perhaps a Samir. Something more… ethnic. Anything but Alex.”
When I introduce myself, “My name is Alex,” it often leads to puzzled expressions. Their brains seem to short-circuit, escalating into chaos. They bring forth their internal “ethnic translators,” and suddenly I’m “Jhon.”
What follows next is predictable: “How do you spell that?” I often want to say, “How on earth do you think it’s spelled?!” Or maybe, “Um, just like every other ‘Alex’?” But instead, I calmly spell it out. Does the confusion end there? Not a chance.
“Oh, cool. But… that’s not your real name, right?” Actually, it is. My parents, who immigrated from Egypt, believed they were making a wise choice. They wanted to give me a name that would help me blend in seamlessly. Their hope was that I wouldn’t face ridicule as a child. I think of my friend Samir, whose parents perhaps didn’t share that foresight. Growing up, he faced a tough childhood, especially when classmates teased him over what they considered a “weird name.”
My parents came to this country to provide opportunities that were unavailable in Egypt. I was born in the U.S., and they aimed to give me a name that fit right in—something everyone could spell. They envisioned a bright future for me and didn’t want a complicated name to hinder that.
My father frequently reminded me that I could become president one day. I would chuckle, but he always insisted, “Why not? You were born here, just like everyone else.” In his mind, part of that was tied to my name sounding familiar and conventional.
I can imagine the conversation that led to my name choice: my dad, peacefully dreaming about my future, suddenly wakes up in a panic, exclaiming, “Alex! We must name him Alex!” So, despite potential backlash from some in the community, my parents chose a name that they thought would simplify my life.
None of this is their fault; they acted with the best intentions. They couldn’t predict that people would struggle to accept my name as it was. Sticking to their plan, they named my brothers Mark and David. Interestingly enough, they don’t face the same questions I do. Neither does my wife, whose name is Sarah—also Egyptian—though she looks less “ethnic.”
Maybe Samir’s parents weren’t misguided after all. In the end, a name doesn’t alter how people perceive you, does it? Perhaps I should consider adopting a name that aligns more with expectations. But would I stand a chance of becoming president with a name like Khaled, or maybe even… Barack?
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Summary
Naming your child is a significant decision, especially for immigrant parents. The name “John” may seem innocuous, but it can lead to misinterpretations and assumptions about identity. Through my experience, I’ve seen how a simple name can complicate perceptions and interactions. Ultimately, a name should reflect who you are, but it might not always align with societal expectations.