correct me
Say My Name — Pt. 2
Kalonji declared Friday as “DO NOT LET PEOPLE CALL YOU OUT YO NAME DAY.” He said that on that day, people like me, those with extraordinary signifiers, should demand that others do not snatch our names away from us and pronounce them how they see fit. He wrote:
“i know at first it may seem like you are inconveniencing them. but this is not an inconvenience. this is an awesome learning opportunity for them. smile at their clumsy pronunciation and say it again. allow them the OPPORTUNITY to repeat it. it’s such an exciting moment for them because they have the pleasure of going on a 60 second adventure outside the normalcy of standard american english.”
I would like to submit that my name is not their learning opportunity. I am an educator and a student of learning — learning opportunities are my jam. But I’m not having this one.
I have some places to show you, now.
1. High school me with my mama, early 2000s, local health clinic, only place in town I can get my blood work done for free.
Nurse, to Mama: Do you speak English?
Mama: Yes.
Nurse: Good girl.
I’m not sure how to comment on this, our first stop. Rage bungles up the words I want to use to tell you more about this time that my grown mother was called a “good girl” by a probably younger woman for speaking English when my mother had done nothing to suggest she couldn’t speak English other than be brown.
2. Parents’ home, recent past.
Dad, to me: This cakes tastes well.
I have stopped and corrected his English so many times that he occasionally says things like this just to show me that he knows the difference between an adjective and an adverb but that he prefers to annoy me.
The last time this happened, I felt the weight of the sheer audacity of my correcting the language of parents, both polyglots, who are so unbelievably more literate than I am or will likely ever be.
3. Macy’s jewelry counter, many times, many years
My mother, or my mother-in-law: Could I please see ______________?
Sales lady:
I have never been ignored at a jewelry counter, even though unlike my mothers, I have never bought any jewelry from counters.
4. High school me, again, now at WalMart in the checkout line, now after having just gotten a nearly perfect score on the Reading and English sections of the ACT
Stranger in the line ahead of me: <mumble mumble>
Me: What?
Stranger: DO. YOU. SPEAK. ENGLISH?
Me: Yeah?
Stranger: <mumbles something about his wife and moves aside so I can check out ahead of him>
5. Elementary School me, middle school me, high school me, college me, graduate school me
Teacher, taking roll for the first time, stops, makes a face: Umm
Me: I’m here.
Teacher: Say your name.
Me: It’s Gulnaz. I go by Gulu.
Teacher: ???
Me: Gulu rhymes with Lulu.
Class: <laughs>
Teacher sometimes: Oh, that’s not so hard.
Teacher other times: Glulu?
My name does not rhyme with Lulu. Sometimes I explain, “I go by Gulu because it’s easier.” Gulu is not easier to pronounce than Gulnaz; that’s not why I go by Gulu.
We are back now.
Like I said, I study learning. I spend a lot of time thinking about the types of learning that schools value (knowledge and skills that maintain the status quo, build a good worker, and build a good economy) and the learning that schools shut down (knowledge and skills that upend oppressive structures, build a good human, and build good communities).
Sometimes I am sad that I have spent so much time chasing after and owning (remember that ACT score I told you about?) school learning, upholding it and demanding that my parents master it, too. I am sad that even though my parents never use the word ain’t, their accents and skin color serve as a communicative barrier. I am sad that I somehow decided to practice and preach an oppressive standard that does not beget clarity or consistency, but rather a false exclusiveness and sense of superiority that isn’t actually tied to mastery of that standard.
Let me brag about my parents real quick: They each fluently speak three languages in addition to English, the language they learned as adult immigrants to the United States. My mother takes online classes to improve her pronunciation of Quranic Arabic, a language she in which she is not fluent but still wants to learn. When she reads, she notes down words she doesn’t understand and looks them up in the Gujarati-English dictionary she keeps on her nightstand. Okay so my mom is a lot more diligent about language learning than my dad is. But he does successfully tell jokes and play with words in every language he speaks, which is much harder than it seems.
My parents are learners. When I offer them corrections, they take them. They know that knowing the difference between who and whom doesn’t make them better people than other people, just slightly better informed people than they were before learning. They are patient with themselves and with others. They aren’t above asking for help or taking help, even from their children.
I have never once had anyone ask me how to correctly pronounce my name after hearing it come out of my parents’ mouths. That’s where my name lives.
I go by Gulu <pronounced Gulu> because that’s what my Mama and Daddy call me, have always called me. And I answer to Gulu <rhymes with Lulu> because I’m not sure they’re all that interested in learning how to say it properly. They don’t get to call me out my name. They don’t get to make me feel guilty for learning the ins and outs of Standard English, which they’ve made necessary to get anywhere in this society, and then make me and my parents feel expendable to this society. They don’t get to question our brown-person qualifications to speak their white-person language, and then expect to take up our time so they can have an exotic experience to tell their friends about later. My name is not their learning opportunity. My name is mine.
