- It’s Raya. Like papaya or Mariah.

- I’m so sorry. I thought it was pronounced Ray-uh.

- No need to apologize. I’m used to it. Call me Ray-uh if it’s easier. Our colleagues do it already. I really don’t mind.

- No, I should call you the way you prefer.

- Well, that would be a first since I came here.

- No one pronounces it correctly? On purpose or—

- I’d like to think there is no ill intention behind it. It’s just how one’s tongue is used to certain phonetics and vowels. However, some people do make sure I know they are pronouncing it wrong because I dared to correct them. After all, I’m the guest here.

- That’s just borderline disrespectful. I’m sorry you have to deal with this.

- You apologize a lot for someone who didn’t wrong me. I’ve been all over the globe, and everywhere I went, people had their own variations of my name. With time, you tend to forget what it was exactly, and you conform to their version. And I have to admit, my name is quite complicated for Westerners. The As aren’t helping. It requires a certain openness to the mouth that isn’t quite possible around here.

- I see. What does it mean, your name?

- It’s a perfume or a banner… like a flag. Depends on the spelling in Arabic. 

- It’s beautiful. The way you say it, too, is quite unique. It’s sad that people don’t appreciate it. I’ve always believed that someone’s fate is predestined by their name. Like someone who is named Beyoncé must become well… Beyoncé. It’s a set-in stage name worthy of someone iconic.

- I like that. We don’t really choose our name, though. We grow into it and what society makes of that name. There are some really unfortunate ones. I knew a Lice once. It’s pronounced Lih-say.

- Why would a parent do this to their child? Life is hard enough.

- There is beauty in standing out, I guess.

- The good kind of standing out. This will only lead to bullying, I’m afraid.

- A guy I used to date told me it was good my name wasn’t Urban, or I would have stood out for all the wrong reasons.

- What a jerk!

- What upsets me is that I didn’t stand up to him. I should have broken up with him the minute he misused urban. Anyway, I dismissed it because I didn’t want to be this person… this person who got offended. I was pretty new here, and I wanted to be accepted. It’s lonely enough as it is… and I didn’t want to reject the only company I had… but something within me was boiling because he was also the only one who pronounced my name… my way.

- I understand.

- Actually, the only one who, at that time, was pronouncing my name at all. I wanted him to keep saying it so I don’t disappear. I don’t recall where I heard this, but they said ‘You die twice’. The first time, physically. The second time when your name is said out loud for the last time. It’s quite lovely.

- It’s poetic, yes.

- We broke up after that, and now there is no one pronouncing my name correctly, so far. But it’s being said in different iterations, so I guess they count.

- Isn’t it also a death when it’s pronounced differently? They are technically giving you a different name. Your original one is not being said aloud anymore, gone with it is your culture, your identity, and the path set by your original name.

- Well, that’s the cost of coming here—your path changes. You’re asking for it to change by coming here. So, you reinvent yourself. You become what they want you to be because this is the only way to survive. You have to kill your old self. You would let them call you Rhonda if it will make it easier for them and for you. And you will find out that your principles aren’t really principles until they’ve been tested.