My name is Alex. It might seem like a straightforward name, but for some reason, it seems to puzzle people. They often assume I must be named something else—like Al, Juan, or even Jaan. And don’t even get me started on the bizarre variations like “Alyx” or “Jhon.” It’s as if my name defies people’s expectations based on my appearance.
When people meet me, there’s an odd disconnect. I’m aware that my beard might complicate matters, especially when I get pulled aside at the airport for “random” checks. However, it’s more than just looks; it’s like their brains refuse to accept that my name is Alex. They seem to think, “This person must have an ‘ethnic’ name. It can’t be Alex.” So when I reveal my name, the confusion begins. They often ask, “How do you spell that?”
I want to respond with something sarcastic, like “How do you think it’s spelled?” Instead, I patiently spell it out. But that rarely ends the conversation. “Oh, that’s cool, but that’s not your real name, right?” Yes, it is. My parents, immigrants from Syria, chose a name they thought would help me integrate into American society. They wanted me to fit in and avoid the teasing that can come with a more culturally specific name.
They made this choice rooted in love and hope for a better future. They believed a common name would spare me from the ridicule faced by others, like my friend Samir, whose unique name drew constant attention and mockery in school. My parents hoped that naming me Alex would open doors and create opportunities, allowing me to navigate American life without the burden of a name that might be seen as “foreign.”
My father often told me I could aspire to be president, and I’d laugh, but he insisted it was possible because I was born here. In his mind, having a name like Alex was part of that dream. I can picture the day they chose my name: my dad, dreaming of my future, suddenly waking up in a panic, thinking, “We have to name him Alex! It’s the only way!”
This desire to blend in wasn’t a betrayal of my heritage; it was a strategy. They also named my siblings Sarah and David, names that don’t raise eyebrows. Interestingly, neither my wife, who is also Syrian and named Lila, nor my siblings face the same scrutiny. Perhaps it’s because they don’t look as “ethnic.”
In retrospect, maybe Samir’s parents weren’t so misguided after all. A name doesn’t truly alter how people perceive you, does it? I sometimes wonder if I should adopt a name that would fit people’s expectations better. But could I really envision myself as someone like Amir or Barack?
For those navigating parenting and naming decisions, there are excellent resources available. You can explore more about home insemination and family planning at Make a Mom. Plus, you can read about one mother’s journey at Intracervical Insemination. Don’t forget to check out ASRM for comprehensive information regarding pregnancy and related topics.
In summary, while naming a child may seem like a simple decision, it can carry significant weight in terms of identity and acceptance. Immigrant parents often make these choices with the best intentions, aiming for a smoother path for their children in a new culture.