WP1: “Kayla Nickfardjam”
While I’m proud of my name today, that has not always been the case. Since names are the physical manifestations of aspects of our identity including ethnicity, ancestry, and nationality, our attitudes about them reflect how we feel about these parts of ourselves. “Kayla Nickfardjam” reflects the duality of my identity as a first-generation American. “Kayla” represents the girl who has lived in Los Angeles all her life. “Nickfardjam” is the last name I share with generations of ancestors in Iran as well as my parents who emigrated as a result of the Iranian revolution. Like many first-generation Americans, I felt ashamed of my full name as it signified to others that I was different in a society that rewarded blending in.
It’s rare that people are inherently insecure about their names, but rather extrinsic reactions often fuel self-consciousness. I never resented my last name until I first attended school. It was here where students furrowed their brows at the sound of it and quickly gave up trying to pronounce all eleven letters. I could tell by the look on their faces that they found it strange like my unibrow or the homemade herbal stews I brought for lunch.
I saw no value in my name. It was like getting stuck with a disappointing present from a relative without a gift receipt. Technically, it was mine, but I only used it because that’s what was expected of me. In my mind, it was just another mechanism to separate me from the Millers, Browns, and Smiths. No one ever pronounced it correctly, yet I never corrected anyone because I didn’t want to inconvenience them. I had internalized racism to the point where I thought that I was a burden to others simply due to my authentic existence. It felt incredibly isolating and I had no idea why such a seemingly small thing impacted my self-esteem so profoundly.
Turns out, distress over the reception and pronunciation of one’s name is a feeling many American children share. This 2012 explains it well: “As a baby, identity and self-concept are developed through a family’s repeated use of a child’s name (Sears and Sears 2003). A child begins to understand who they are through their parents’ accent, intonation, and pronunciation of their name. Additionally, names frequently carry cultural and family significance. Names can connect children to their ancestors, country of origin, or ethnic group, and often have deep meaning or symbolism for parents and families. When a child goes to school and their name is mispronounced or changed, it can negate the thought, care, and significance of the name, and thus the identity of the child.” Essentially, since names play an integral role in the fostering of our identities, the mispronunciation of them can undermine our sense of self.
A common defense mechanism to evade name-based taunting is to hide behind another name. Many people I knew growing up went by a shortened version of their name or picked up a new one that was presumably more palatable. Even my relatives went from “Ghazal” to “Giselle” or from “Farid” to “Fred.” In kindergarten, I decided that my name was just Kayla. I refused to say my last name aloud even if someone asked about it. I so desperately wanted to feel “normal” amongst my predominantly white class, that I hid behind the facade of my “average-sounding” name in hopes that it would help me blend in. I only eventually became forthcoming about my last name when I realized that trying to keep it a secret drew more unwanted attention to myself.
I began to warm up to my cultural background when it was introduced in the classroom. In seventh grade, we read Persepolis, a graphic novel detailing the life of a young girl named Marjane who grows up during the time of the Iranian revolution. Seeing a part of myself reflected in the curriculum made me feel confident enough to finally explore my heritage. I told my parents about what I had read and learned that my mom’s story bore a strong resemblance to that of the main character. Both had lived through immense political turmoil, the war with Iraq, the government’s denunciation of all things tied to the Western world, the compulsory hair-coverings, and eventually escaped to Austria. They were strong, determined, and ambitious. Drawing this connection between Marjan and my mother was the first time I began to see value in my culture.
Although the representation of my background in the general curriculum was the first step to accepting myself, I only truly embraced my heritage when I investigated it purely of my own volition. In my Junior year of high school, I thought it would be interesting to interview my family about their experiences with regards to the revolution and moving away. Besides for a few anecdotes here and there my parents had never spoken about their immigration in detail and I had never asked. Turns out, Leaving the country as a Jew proved to be very difficult and oftentimes illegal. My aunt had 24 hours to leave before being caught by the authorities. My mom’s family was accused of being Jewish spies and could not leave for several years. Later, she was separated from her family in a dark prison cell and interrogated with a machine gun to her back. Even when they left, they faced discrimination. My uncle who lived in Italy constantly heard his peers say that if they saw a Jew, they would kill them. My dad who lived in Texas was targeted by the KKK. Initially, I was shocked and listened with a heavy heart, but eventually, tears of sadness turned to that of happiness.
I finally understood that my heritage was nothing but an asset. All around me were human manifestations of bravery, persistence, and compassion. Their advice and wisdom were priceless, having been informed by serious hardships. I was grateful that they sacrificed so much to provide a better life for us and was impressed that despite facing discrimination, they held on to their culture and passed it down to us. It is thanks to their determination to preserve their traditions such as weekly Shabbat dinners that my cousins are my best friends and I get to eat the best home-cooked Persian food all of the time.
Since my name is tied to my ethnic identity, discovering the true beauty of my culture helped me embrace my name. I’m more than happy to share a last name with a line of such strong and vibrant people. It still represents what makes me different, but now I know that those differences make me special. I no longer feel like a burden to others and correct people when they mispronounce my name. If they’re interested, I’ll tell them about its origins so as to engage in valuable dialogues and promote greater acceptance for people like me.
This experience helped me realize that it’s a mistake for first-generation American kids like me to hide our true names and identities. While this is an understandable and natural response in a climate of intolerance, ignoring hallmark parts of our identity prevents us from seeing its inherent value. We can be inspired by the strength of our ancestors or the beauty of our customs, but only if we seek it out. Digging deeper into our background allows us to find ways in which our identity, and specifically our differences, can be an asset to our lives.
While I feel fortunate to have had representation in the classroom to encourage me on this path, no one should feel that they need external validation to be confident that a journey of self-exploration is worth pursuing. Every story is valuable. Learning about mine helped me accept my name. Imagine what could happen if you learned about yours.
Works Cited
Kohli, Rita, and Daniel G. Solórzano. “Teachers, Please Learn Our Names!: Racial Microagressions and the k-12 Classroom.” Race Ethnicity and Education, vol. 15, no. 4, 2012, pp. 441–462., https://doi.org/10.1080/13613324.2012.674026.
