*Non-Fiction — September 1, 2022
Overflowing: Reflections on My Name
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In the beginning was the name. And the name was a topic of argument for my parents.
In South Korea in the 1990s, you had one month to register the birth of your child. If the parents were indecisive or procrastinators—and mine happened to be both—the newborn could go those thirty days without a name. I was called “우리 아가, 우리 착한 애기, 아가야”—our ahga, our sweet baby, baby—for thirty-one days.
In the beginning, my parents agreed that they wanted a name that was 순우리말, one that didn’t incorporate Chinese characters. My mother wanted to name me 솔비(Sol-bee), which means rain in the pine trees. Very poetic. My father wanted to name me 해솔 (Hae-sol), which means sun in the pine trees. Also poetic, less melancholic. They couldn’t agree between the sun and the rain. Their eventual divorce, twenty years down the line, seems inevitably tied to my origin story.
—
I can’t fully hear anything that my boyfriend’s father is saying, because he keeps mumbling away the ends of his sentences. It’s clear that he is scared to call me by my name. He is kind, and he has a blue-eyed, twinkling wink that is endearing. Joe, my boyfriend, has inherited his grin. (Joe’s mother mourns the fact that Joe has gotten her brown eyes, and makes it excessively clear that she’s hoping for a blue-eyed grandchild.) I want Joe’s dad to like me; I want the whole family to like me. He is a bit hard of hearing, and blushes furiously when he realizes that he’s been mispronouncing my name. I blush almost as much as he does when he apologizes.
For a reason I can’t quite name, I start crying when Joe and I are left alone after dinner. Joe holds me, but is confused. “I thought the dinner went well,” he remarks. “They loved you.” I cry harder, because I am embarrassed that my tears are flowing in the first place. I can reason out that my tears are coming from pent-up anxiety, from stress, from being an emotional person. But—long before I’m invited to spend a week at their home in Rhode Island, celebrating Fourth of July on a private sailboat—I can’t help but feel overwhelmed by how I will never fit into this family. Joe looks bewildered. He arranges his face into a sympathetic smile and pats my back gently.
—
Poet Warsan Shire writes: “give your daughters difficult names. give your daughters names that command the full use of tongue. my name makes you want to tell me the truth. my name doesn’t allow me to trust anyone that cannot pronounce it right.”
It’s a beautiful quote. The sentiments are rousing. But when I read this, I feel more disheartened than I’d prefer. My name is both an overflowing and a challenge, but not by my choice. Perhaps I am too cynical of American society at large, but I would like to be able to trust more people than those who can pronounce my name. I also feel unreasonably angry with my parents—who had no way of predicting this future for their daughter. I do not want my name to be a test, a truth, a trial that requires the “full use of tongue.” I do not want to be difficult. I want to be easygoing and calm—something more akin to a pond than a flood. Yes, a beautifully curated pond, decorated with a harmonious Oriental bridge and gaping-mouthed koi. No one would know whether the water’s depths hid breadcrumbs or a corpse. I could hide behind a tranquil surface. I could reflect back whatever people wanted to see of themselves in me.
—
It’s a late December night in Portland, Maine. We’re approaching 2am, which feels even later when it gets dark at 4pm. “Wait, wait, wait,” Danny slurs, “I think I have it this time.”
We are all sitting around Joe’s kitchen table: Joe, Emily, Sophie, Danny, me. And Sophie’s chihuahua. The chihuahua is exhausted and sleeps on Sophie’s lap. I’m a bit envious; I’d also like to be sleeping. I’ve met Joe’s best friends a number of times—brunch, around his apartment, this event, that brief game night. But because I mostly work evenings, it’s been hard to spend a night out all together. Truth be told, I’d really prefer to be alone after a two-show day. Working at a small regional theater comes with its own price, such as having to be a backstage crew member for our inordinately complicated holiday show. I have learned more about child actors and Charles Dickens than I ever dreamed of, in Christmases past or present.
But I am here now, because I like Joe. I may be falling in love with Joe, with his grin and boyish voice and crinkly eyes. I want Joe’s friends to like me. So here I am, at this table.
The rest of us are drinking water to sober up, except Danny, who keeps clamoring for vodka. “Hey, Joe, can I have another shot? I swear I’m not that drunk.”
Joe finally gets up.
“I’m getting my shot!” Danny crows.
Then he goes back to the game at hand: guessing my name.
—
With the deadline for my name registration rapidly approaching, my grandmother sought out a traditional namer. She was fed up with my parents’ dilly-dallying. She, my father’s mother, was proud of her granddaughter—the first female descendant in her line, after three sons—and was impatient for me to have a name. The namer took a look at my 사주팔자 chart (Wikipedia informs me that this form of astrology is called “Four Pillars of Destiny” in English, which feels like entirely the wrong name. I prefer the less grandiose, literal translation: “Birth Time Eight Characters”). According to my birth time, the namer came up with “재연.”
There are five elements in this form of astrology: 화, 수, 목, 금, 토—fire, water, wood, metal, and earth. My chart had lots and lots of wood. I needed water to grow, so the namer said. She suggested the Chinese character 연, “Yeon.” There is no direct translation; one might say it is an “abundance” or “flood,” but the closest equivalence would be an “overflow.” I prefer “overflowing,” though, and the extra motion that comes with the gerund: an excessive sharing of something that is not necessarily always water.
My dad showed up to the district name registrar on the thirty-first day after my birth, as soon as the office opened at 8:30am. He apologized profusely for the lateness and explained the backstory, hoping that he wouldn’t need to pay a fee. Luckily, the office administrator found my parents’ indecision funny and allowed them to submit the paperwork without any tardy notices or fees. I went from “baby” to Jaeyeon.
—
The game with Danny continues. Emily and Sophie are talking amongst themselves on the side, speaking in low-enough voices that I can’t join their conversation. They glance awkwardly over, but smile a bit and carry on. I am, after all, the outsider in this clique of best friends.
“Wait, wait—did I guess Lily already? You look like a Lily.”
Yes, Danny. Twice already.
I don’t know why I haven’t just told him. It started at the party we came from. It was 90s movie-themed, which Joe forgot to tell me. It didn’t matter, anyways, since I got there late after working an evening show. When I arrived, everyone had confetti and beer splashed onto their skin, as if attendees of a pseudo-baptism. Danny and Joe were smashed.
Now Joe is sobering up. He brings a shot back to Danny, and winks at me. There are remnants of makeup on Joe’s face, supposed to look like dirt smudges. He’s dressed up as Jack from Titanic. His hair is swoopy and his eyes are now tired, despite the wink. Joe hates conflict. He can sense my growing discomfort. My face is readable.
At the party, Sophie and Emily made little effort to talk to me. As they usually do. They have been friends with Joe since their freshman year of college. I didn’t know anyone else there, so when Danny approached me, I felt immensely relieved. Jaeyeon is not effortlessly social and charming, unlike Joe.
“Hey Danny!”
“I’m so, so sorry—hey, hey, hey,” he replied, “I know you, but can’t remember your name.”
“That’s alright,” I said. And it really was. “It happens all the time. I know it’s kinda tricky. It’s—”
“Wait, don’t tell me. I think I got it,” he said.
“OK,” I smiled, “Guess.”
—
In college, I start trying to correct people when they mispronounce it. One might call this “feeling empowered” and “owning my name/space/etc.” I try to find some joy and some power in making sure my name is pronounced identifiably.
But the correcting often feels futile, and I’m not sure I’ll continue to do it much longer. Some can’t hear the difference between the sounds of “Yang” and “Yoon” and “Yeon,” and they don’t care. Some don’t care from the beginning, and call me “Jae” regardless. I feel aggressive and sensitive for speaking up, and I’d prefer to be more easygoing. I have zero chill, I fear.
“I’m sorry,” one professor tells me, “I’m scared now to say your name, because I don’t want to mispronounce it.” I’m not sure what to reply. “It’s OK” doesn’t quite suffice. She continues to avoid my name for the rest of the semester. There are perks—I never have to do the readings.
—
Dear reader:
I wonder if you are trying to work out how to pronounce my name. “‘Jay’ like the letter, ‘yeon’ like a yawn,” was my go-to phrase during high school introductions. But at some point, it sounded so distant from my actual name. “연” sounds firmer than “yawn”; the “J” sound is wetter than the Korean “ㅈ,” which falls between “j” and “z” with no English equivalent. I felt myself drowning in the stretched-out Jaaay-yawns. I have yet to figure out a trick that quickly, painlessly normalizes my name to non-Korean people. Introductions have never stopped being stressful. (Fake names have never stopped being fun. I use a pseudonym when I can.)
Jaeyeon
—
Because my mother forbids English names, I go to the first day of first grade with “Jaeyeon” carefully written on the scruff of my coat, my small backpack with one notebook inside it, and my new pink lunchbox with mermaids on it. My mother has prepared the labels with her neat English script. So extremely neat and composed that it gives her away as foreign. (Years later, her script will soften into a pretty cursive that looks casually American.)
At school, I am quiet. With the immediacy of playground rules, I find a group of kids that also don’t speak English. We play by laughing and running and pointing, occasional English words like “it” and “your turn” providing enough structure for games. Since I don’t have any other friends, it’s not an issue that no one can pronounce my name. I don’t remember what my teachers did; it’s possible that they never called on me in class, probably for a variety of reasons. I am happy there, and I cry when I have to transfer schools one month later. My last recess, I communicate via hand gestures and some words that I am leaving. My friends mime tears running down their cheeks, then we play another round of freeze tag. Although I can almost recall their faces still, I don’t think we ever learned one another’s names.
—
Danny is on his second hour of guessing, and I am regretting my response. I’d just wanted to make small talk. He asks me, “What letter does it start with?” But I do not want to tell him my name anymore. I do not feel like I owe him anything.
“J,” I answer quietly.
“J—j,” he muses and mumbles, “Jasmine? Jane? June? Jenny?”
I don’t even need to shake my head anymore—he continues his monologue. The game has long become one-sided.
I don’t even need to shake my head anymore—he continues his monologue. The game has long become one-sided.
Danny downs his shot, then splutters in shock.
“This is water, isn’t it?” he demands.
Joe shrugs.
“I’m not that drunk! I can tell it’s water, just gimme half a shot,” Danny says.
Do something, please, I think hard across the table.
But Joe only says, “Sorry, Danny. I think you’re good for the night.”
Undeterred by my growing discomfort, Danny continues, “I know it’s unusual—hah! Not Juno, or Judo. Can’t be Joe.” He laughs at his own jokes.
He asks the table, “What names start with J?”
He doesn’t say it, but everyone knows what he means: What Asian names start with J?
The clock ticks. Emily and Sophie have stopped chatting and are listening in.
I try to calm myself. I breathe in through my nose. I don’t open my mouth to exhale, so I won’t say anything I regret. There’s not much to be upset about. He’s drunk. I started this guessing disaster. I forget people’s names all the time. It’s not a big fucking deal. It really isn’t.
But we’ve met enough times for me to know all of their names around this table. I know their last names, goddamn it. No: I know I can’t afford to lose my temper now, that it wouldn’t help anything.
I breathe in, then out.
I can tell Joe wants this to blow over.
I open my mouth carefully.
“It’s Jaeyeon, OK, Danny?” I finally say, “Let’s stop now.”
No one says anything. Emily has a half-smile on her pretty face, slight dimples showing below round blue eyes. It may be a reaction of discomfort. But I feel trapped—on show in front of all these white people around the dinner table—with the most normal names. I gave up. I lost. The game is over. I am exhausted.
“Jaeyeon,” Danny crows, breaking the silence. “I knew it! Jaeyeon, Jaeyeon, Jaeyoon, Jiyayoon—” My name becomes his victory chant. It slurs into something unrecognizable.
“No, Jaeyeon,” I interrupt impulsively. I regret it, the moment I correct him. It would have been better to lose with quiet dignity.
“Right, that’s what I said. Jay, Jay—goddamn, can’t believe I forgot again,” he says.
“Sorry everyone, I have work tomorrow morning. A matinee show, so I really should get some sleep,” I say as politely as I can and stand up. “Sorry again. Get home safe and goodnight, Emily. Sophie. Danny.”
Their names ring out harmoniously: Danny, Sophie, Emily. Sophie, Danny, Emily. A march of almost-perfect trochees. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-da-dum. They form a lyrical pulse inside my head, as I take off my jeans and sweater to slip on a t-shirt. No one responds much—just cheerfully saying, “Good night!”
I text Joe as soon as I get into bed, scared that I was ruder than I meant to be. “I’m sorry if I seemed tense, just really tired. When do you think you’ll head to bed?” He doesn’t reply. I lay with my eyes open for another forty-three minutes. I watch his digital clock change in jerky motions—one to two to three. I should have behaved better. I know I made a big deal out of nothing, that Joe’s friends will judge me. Really, I should grow a thicker skin.
—
“What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” says Shakespeare’s Juliet. I wonder if a Jaeyeon by any other name would be as sensitive.
—
I get into an argument with a dear college friend of mine. His name isn’t exactly common either, but it is an English name. It is easy for Americans to remember, and he is white. He grew up just outside of Boston, in a highly educated suburban neighborhood. Imagine a name like, say, “Chester” or “Cedar.” He is reading a book, linguistically and scientifically researched, that proves language doesn’t play as big of a role in shaping our worldview as we think it does.
This is before I’ve heard of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis, founded on the premise that different linguistic systems affect our experiences of the world (the degree to which they shape us is an ongoing discussion). This is also years before graduate school, where I’ll flirt with deconstructionist theories on the “proper name.” Where I will realize that these issues of representation, subjectivity, and alterity—which I sense but cannot name—have long been subjects of philosophical debate.
While I don’t yet have this language, I can feel my disagreement pulsing through my throat. “It debunks the whole ‘Eskimos have fifty words for snow’ theory,” he explains to me. “For another example, the author talks about how people assume nomadic tribes in Mongolia have more verbs for expressing motion because of their, well, nomadic lifestyle, but it’s been proven through linguistic research that some other cultures—like Russians—have just as many motion verbs. See what I’m saying?”
“Yes, I see what you’re saying, but it’s not just about that,” I argue, “The languages we use, the accents we have, even names—I think all this does form a huge part of who I am. And not just that, but how other people perceive me. No one’s going to assume I’m white, with the name I have. Even if I turn in a resume over email, people immediately realize.”
“That’s not the point,” he argues back, “I think the book is trying to say that differing languages in and of themselves are not as big of a deal as we make them out to be. Neurologically speaking.”
But it is a big deal, to me. And my neurons.
I flip through the book, and find that its scientific, linguistic, research-based arguments don’t speak to me. I’m not sure it’s important to tell Chester/Cedar why I disagree. I’m not sure why I’m getting worked up over this. Perhaps I’m biased. Or, worse in Chester/Cedar’s worldview, illogical.
So I try to find a different reason to dislike the book, one based in fact. For example, it is objectively wrong that Koreans only have one word for “green” and “blue.” We have many: 녹색, 푸른색, 청색, 파란색, 하늘색, 곤색, 초록색, and on and on. And although I tell Chester/Cedar that, he doesn’t seem to get why I am so upset over this slim volume he picked up for a fun read. He isn’t quite listening, and neither am I. So we stop the conversation.
—
When we first arrive to Charlottesville, Virginia, my sister and I are given a list of names. These are the ones we can choose from, new American names for our new American lives.
I am seven years old. I know how to say, “Hello,” “Thank you,” and “Where is the bathroom?” in English. We receive the list of names and a stack of English picture books from another Korean family who have already lived in the US for several years. The list is more exciting than a candy store. Whoever compiled it wrote out the English names in 한글, the Korean alphabet, so that we can read it easily. It is filled with names we don’t yet know are old-fashioned, from “Agnes” to “Nancy” to “Yvonne.”
My sister and I pore over the sheet of paper, stomachs flat against the carpeted floor. It’s hard to say what is more of a novelty: the carpet, the ceiling fans whirring above us, the traffic lights outside that stand vertically, or these new names. We repeat these sounds out loud to one another, enchanted by ones that sound similar to those of the Disney princesses we’ve watched on VCR. I wonder briefly why Cinderella and Belle are not on the list. But not for long, because we need to pick our names.
I’m deciding between “Elizabeth” (long and very fancy) and “Ariel” (like the mermaid), when our mother steps in. “What are you looking at?” she asks. She has just returned from a day of office visits and various registrations. We explain. We must have been eager. She gently tells us that we don’t need English names. That she gave us these names at birth for a reason. Perhaps it is then that I first learn about how I got my name.
My mother never changes her last name, even while her marriages dissolve and crystallize throughout the years. She keeps her full name that she was given at birth, in a cramped hospital in Seoul.
—
Hey Jay, this is Emily!
Joe gave me your number and i know this is suuuuper last minute, but i’m working on a documentary about regional theater and wondered if u had time this weekend to talk about your experience working shows? Also heard about how ur part of the local theater of color group and think that’s really cool and relevant, would love to highlight that in my project if there’s any way ☺ I’m free most of sat and also sun afternoon. Lmk!!
—
“Hi everyone, my name is Jaeyeon, and I use she/her pronouns.” I enunciate as clearly as I can. I’m supposed to teach them diction, after all. “I like to start with a check-in, so why don’t we all go around and say our name, pronouns, and one word about how we’re feeling.”
I’m admittedly on edge. It’s my first workshop that I’m teaching by myself. I feel like I’m watching myself from afar as I introduce myself, making sure to explain any theatrical jargon and use my body language effectively; listen to various voices rise and fall, bubble and gravel; watch the awkward web of teenage bodies part itself into exercises.
Things are going, yes, they are. It is going to be OK. They are rehearsing in smaller groups. I breathe in and out—just like I encouraged the kids to do. Then, one of the boys yells from the back of the classroom.
“Yo, Jay Jay!”
“Actually, it’s Jaeyeon.”
My voice is suddenly a dagger, slippery and shiny and sharp. The words themselves are not aggressive, but I surprise myself with how flinty the tone is, how slyly it unsheathes itself from my throat and hurls itself to pierce the speaker.
My eyes are slower than my voice. When I track him down, I realize that the boy is not the confident jock I imagined. He is fourteen years old with an oozing zit on his chin, all scrawny limbs and outstretched neck. He looks mortified. He is also one of the only students of color in the whole room; it’s not a surprise there’s so few—theater isn’t exactly the most diverse or welcoming extracurricular—but this makes me feel even worse about my outburst. My mind starts running in panicked circles. I decide to backtrack, as simply as I can.
“Sorry, did you have a question?”
He doesn’t have the words to defend himself, or to ask his question.
“Nah,” he mumbles.
The girls behind him giggle and smirk. The boy twitches, not meeting my eyes. I realize I can’t remember his name, although I pored over the class roster last night. I don’t know what to say. My voice flies back into my mouth and wriggles its way down into my stomach, making it bubble sluggishly. Long after I finish the workshop, that sense of churning guilt remains. I can’t help but feel like a hypocrite.
—
After the name game ends, after Danny is starting to tire out, after I have watched Joe’s small digital clock change from one angular number to another—I finally hear the crowd meandering out of the apartment. Sophie’s chihuahua yaps just once, too tired for his usual tirade. The locks click shut behind Danny.
Joe comes in and gently closes his bedroom door.
“Hey,” he whispers, when he sees the white of my eyes glint. “You’re still awake.”
“Yeah. Kind of.” I think about sitting up to face him, but I don’t.
“Sorry, I just saw your text,” he says. “I know it was a while, but Danny wouldn’t leave.”
He gets into bed behind me. He smells like toothpaste and Old Spice.
He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls up the covers. The warmth is nice. I don’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry about Danny,” Joe says quietly, “He’s a good guy, I swear. He was really drunk, I’ve never seen him that drunk before, and we were all kind of worried about him making it home safely.”
Sorry for what? What was Danny doing that makes you swear he’s a “good guy”? Why can’t you name the problem for what it is, was, will be?
Joe is a good guy. Everyone says so. He is a much better and kinder person than I am, in an effortless way. An everyday, “cuppa Joe” kind of likable. His eyes have glints of gold that shine in candlelight. I have been told that I have a temper. I know I can be volatile. I know I am not easily kind. I know I am capable of overflowing. I should hold back.
And in the moment, I can’t quite name any coherent thoughts or questions or emotions. I can’t even name why I deserve to be upset. Joe already apologized, didn’t he? I clam my lips shut, focus on breathing through my nose. I imagine concrete bricks on top of my mouth. I try to calm down. I am calming down. And all I feel tangibly is regret.
“No, I totally get it,” I say, exhaling. I nestle my head into the crook of his other arm. “I’m sorry. I was just. Really tired. Still am.”
“OK,” he says, leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Good night.”
Good night.
—
I started this essay to reflect on my name. Only by writing it, I realize how much anger I have. This anger circles and cycles around and around and around with every iteration of memory, sucking me in before I can grasp how intensely I feel about it.
I’m not sure this all feels deserved. Perhaps this essay is just an overflowing. And who am I to be so upset? After all, I am in a place of privilege, where I can articulate my (outrageous?) rage at the small stumblings and mispronunciations of my name.
I edit this essay, again reflecting—trying to sift through my words and drain the excess, trying to sharpen and solidify and harden. Three years ago, when I wrote the first draft, Jacques Derrida and Naoki Sakai were names that meant nothing to me. It’s remarkable how much my theoretical framing of “naming” and “subjectivity” have changed, continues to change—and, yet, no amount of philosophy can change my knee-jerk reaction to my name’s mispronunciation. So: what is in a name? What remains, after various intellectual influences ebb in and out?
—
An overflow:
Dear Joe,
You will probably never read this, because I told you I never wanted to talk to you again when we broke up. I know. It was extreme of me. (But was it?)
“Well, what did you want me to say?” you asked me, when I brought up that night with Danny—a full nine months later. “Did you want me to say, ‘I’m sorry my friend was rude?’ Or: ‘I’m sorry that I didn’t support you, when Danny forgot your name?’ What is it you’re after?”
Joe, I was trying so hard not to be angry, to give your friends another chance. If I didn’t, I knew you wouldn’t give me any chance. I was scared of exploding, of drowning you in my fury. I should’ve known, but didn’t, that you’d always just label me as crazy—no matter what I did.
But Joe: that wasn’t the apology I was after, no. I wanted you to say:
“I’m sorry that I didn’t intervene. I’m sorry I did nothing with my position of power in the situation, being in a comfortable space with my best friends. And yes, I realize you’re not asking for anything beyond common respect; I shouldn’t frame that as you ‘needing support.’ I’m sorry that my pretty white friends also just watched it happen, laughed uncomfortably. I’m sorry that one of my closest friends made racist jokes about your name, and that it’s really not about ‘forgetfulness.’ I’m sorry that I defended him. I’m sorry that I am not willing to learn from my mistakes, of acknowledging my privilege in any other way besides feeling guilty. I’m sorry that I can’t own up to the more uncomfortable, inevitable conflicts of being in an interracial relationship—those moments that are a lot more complex than protesting that I don’t have an Asian fetish.”
I want my name to not be a game or a joke.
Dear Joe,
In your next relationship—which I have no doubt that you will find, because you are such a good guy with a sensitive soul—I hope that you end up with a beautiful white person, someone with blue eyes and a thoroughly non-crazy disposition and a name like Sarah or John.
Jaeyeon
—
I still often wonder what my life would have been like if I were named Sol-Bee like my mother wanted, or gone with an English name. Would I have been a different person?
I disagree with Chester/Cedar, and the book he was reading. I think yes.
I like to validate my identity with whatever forms of reasoning available, and I like to imagine that my fondness for water comes from my name chart. That I seek out the ocean to balance out my wood elements, that I flood with tears and feelings because of the abundant, overflowing “Yeon.”
But then again, perhaps not. Perhaps it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy. Perhaps I’m just a person who loves the sea.
—
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 10. View full issue & more.
All (most) names in this piece have been changed.