The hidden power of names
Do they shape us or do we define ourselves?
“What is the meaning of your name?” a friend in the Philippines asked me during our lunch.
“It means intelligent and joyful,” I said.
He smiled, “That’s exactly who you are!”
My friend was, of course, very kind, as Filipinos often are, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t beam with pride at his words.
Is it true our name makes us?
How can I know since I no longer identify with my given name and now use one chosen by myself, at 10, from the gigantic English book of names, which my best friend plopped in front of me one day in class? Since so many of our friends have one, we needed one, too, to fit in. In Malaysia, it is common for the Chinese to give their children an English name, a remnant from our British colonial past, and something we no longer question the implications of but practice and take as a given.
Yes, my real name is not Rachel.
My paternal grandfather, Ah Gong, gave me my birth name, a privilege I did not give my parents, and it sounds like a boy's name—Heng1.
I was named while I was still in the womb, and everyone was certain I would be a boy. My mother hoped for a boy, too, since she already had my elder sister. The wise old ladies, convinced by the male-bearing shape of my mother’s belly, were sure of it as well. The 80s ultrasound couldn’t confirm my gender—“You lo, gwai sei (naughty), you always had your legs crossed. Don’t let us know!” my mother would claim whenever retelling the story.
In Chinese culture, changing a name once given is discouraged, so my Ah Gong kept my name but changed the character to one suitable for a girl. Many years later, while I was going through a pre-pubescent identity crisis, I asked my Ah Ma for the meaning of my name. It turned out that nobody knew for sure anymore; Ah Gong was the only one in our family who could read and write Chinese. Our names have gone to the grave with him.
The sound of my given name is tough to like. I was often teased for having a boy’s name, and my middle name was not spared, having a homonym for ghost or turtle. Besides, growing up in a multicultural and multilingual Malaysia, my name was often mispronounced, causing me to cringe more times than I could count.
My name was like an ill-fitting shirt that they covered me with the moment I emerged from my mother’s womb with the “wrong” gender.
The saving grace came in my teens when an older friend, well-versed in Chinese, helped me pick a character for my name—欣. Once he told me that it meant joyful, I knew in my heart immediately that that was my name. It’s like I could finally see and appreciate the patterns on my ill-fitting shirt.
In Malaysia, we have a practice where the birthday person gets to make a wish before blowing out the candles. And each year, since I could remember, I would close my eyes, with my clasped hands touching my chin, and utter this phrase silently as if it's a prayer—“I wish that my loved ones and I will always be happy.” Do not ask me where this wisdom came from for such a young child!
Nevertheless, the newfound meaning of my name did not stop me from adopting my self-chosen name once I got the opportunity. When I discovered the internet, I used Rachel immediately as my persona, tailoring a new shirt for myself. When I joined the workforce later in my 20s, Rachel naturally became my public identity.
One of the reasons I chose the name Rachel was its international appeal, and I assumed the days of explaining how my name should be called would be over.
However, stepping outside Malaysia, I noticed raised eyebrows when an Asian introduced herself with an English name. These subtle reactions made me self-conscious and made me reflect on the complex relationship between names, history, and identity.
For many of us Chinese-Malaysians, English names are a byproduct of our colonial past—a culture passed down from our parents who attended the British-run school. I grew up bilingual, speaking Cantonese and English at home, and using an English name felt natural as I converse mainly in English with the outside world.
But every time someone questioned my choice, I was reminded of the invisible threads that tie our names to the past and how they shape the way others perceive us and, to some extent, how we perceive ourselves.
In addition, I was not totally spared the burden of mispronunciation, which I found out as I moved to Germany. The guttural ‘ach’ sound in German made pronouncing Rachel particularly tricky, often resulting in something far worse than any mispronunciations I’ve ever experienced. Thankfully, due to the popularity of the TV Show Friends2 among my generation, I found some respite from mispronunciations with the people I usually interacted with.
A name is like a language; it is only as easy as it is on the tongue of the speaker. So, now, living as a migrant in a country with an entirely different native language, I have come full circle with my name.
At times, I wrestled with myself, too, for covering part of my heritage with a name that carries the weight of a colonial past. Yet, I cannot deny that, by adopting a new name, I have taken destiny and fate into my own hands; I have defined my identity.
Our identity is often defined for us before we can define it ourselves.
Then, I discovered the ancient Chinese tradition called Zi (字), where one takes on a courtesy name upon reaching adulthood to reflect their new role or stage in life. This knowledge reconciled me with my heritage, freeing me from the shackles of self-doubt. After all, I had done something Chinese by adopting a new name to reflect my life stage; I had just carried out the Zi tradition.
I have a given name reserved only for family and my childhood friends. I have adopted a self-chosen name as I take on new roles and live through new stages of life. And just as naturally, I have embraced yet another name—Mama.
When I first shifted from Heng to Rachel, it was a strange sensation, responding to a name I had never lived as. Each time I heard someone calling me Rachel, it was like a voice from a distant dream slipping away as I woke.
But since then, the line between dream and reality has collided, and Rachel is like a name that has always been mine. I respond now to Rachel just as quickly and naturally as to Heng or Mama.
One can have many names and identities. One can have a name used only by family and childhood friends, a name for public appearances, a name reserved for loved ones, and a name for insert-scenario-here.
When someone asks, “Who are you?” Do you say your name? Or your citizenship? Or your occupation? Or daughter or son, mother or father, sister or brother?
Do I identify more with Rachel or Heng? Or Mama?
Ultimately, a name is just a thread in the fabric of our identity, each adding depth to the tapestry of who we are. It is not the name that defines us, but the stories and lives we breathe into them.
I wear many names—one given, one chosen, one earned—but it is I, who give them meaning.
Here are two stories about names that have inspired this post:
Your name tells a story, here’s mine by
The trauma of immigration, and the story behind a name by
Share with me:
What do you think of your name?
This was a lovely read. I’ve just written a post about identity and it being nebulous and ever changing. So many people I know go by different names to the ones they were born with. I really love that final paragraph as yes, who we are goes way beyond a name.
I can so relate to this post! When I was a teen, I shared my first name with three others in my form at school. So my name became ordinary. It didn’t help that my name didn’t feel like “me”. Only when my non-Indian friends complimented me on the sound of my name, did I slowly began to appreciate it. Good on you, Rachel!