Issue 16: "How I Got My Name" by Jackie Yen
Immigrant Hustle: A Monthly Mini Memoir
This month’s IH Mini Memoir is written by Jackie Yen — an east-coaster turned ATLien, Francophile (see her photo for a taste of Paris!), book lover and writer, dedicated wife and mother, and a loyal and entertaining friend. Jackie shared her story about her name with me years ago, and it made me think of the power and meaning behind a name. What is with this American expectation that names be easy for others versus meaningful for oneself? It makes me think about the double consciousness of having an American name and a Korean name, as well as the decisions my parents and others of their generation had to make about who they might be in the U.S. What does it mean to keep, change, or use a name(s) based on who is around and what the setting may be? Hmm, thanks for getting us thinking, Jackie!
P.S. We are hosting a zine workshop at Sunnyside Arts in Queens NYC on Sunday, May 5th! Register here (under Classes and Events) for an afternoon of fun - $25 per person or $40 for two people. Also, check out more exciting KP events to come!
How I Got My Name: A Mini Memoir
Jackie Yen lives in Atlanta with her family. She loves reading, writing, and walking in the Botanical Gardens when the tulips are blooming. Her Chinese name - which her scholarly great-grandfather gave her - means big piece of white jade.
I sit at my desk with my hands neatly folded in front of me and my elbows spread out, the way I know I am supposed to sit. Anna makes a loud fart joke behind me, making the other kids laugh and the teacher Ms. Lynn tells the class to be quiet. I am seven years old, it is my first day of second grade at Pine Grove Elementary School in Avon, Connecticut, a town we only moved to last year. Ms. Lynn has short, blonde hair and when she introduced herself she told us she is a Ms not a Mrs. I sensed that it was important to her that we remember that.
She stands straight and tall in front of class, calling out names from a list. I know most of the kids because they were also in first grade with me. I pay attention, nervous I’ll miss my name. Anna, Kara, Daniel, Stratford.
Jacqueline Yen.
My hand shoots into the air, and I am proud I was so quick. Now I can relax. Ms. Lynn raises her pen above the clipboard she is holding. “Do you go by Jackie?”
Jackie? No, I think. No one calls me Jackie. I am Jacqueline, pronounced with two syllables like Jack-leen. My father picked my name, and my mother has told me many times that he never wanted me to be called Jackie. My Brazilian cousins are named Tatiana, Beatrice, Juliana, Amelia. My father is Carlito to his sisters. They always speak Portuguese together, and when they call me Jacqueline it sounds like music and makes me feel beautiful.
In first grade everyone called me Jacqueline, though not always the right way. But I feel uncertain, trying to figure out the right answer. Am I supposed to be Jackie? Is it better to be Jackie? The way Ms. Lynn asked makes it feel like I am supposed to have a shorter nickname. I can’t keep her waiting. I nod yes.
Anna speaks up, “It’s Jacqueline, Ms. Lynn.”
Ms. Lynn looks at me, and I detect impatience in the way she sighs and speaks a little more loudly. “Is it? Or Jackie?”
I don’t have a choice. I’ve committed, she saw me nod yes. It’s too late to change my answer without messing everything up. I nod yes and say, “Yes, Jack-ee.” The short syllables sound strange to me. I hate how it sounds.
Ms. Lynn writes on the clipboard with her pen, “Is that spelled with an ie?”
It takes me a second to realize she means, at the end of Jackie. Is ie at the end of Jackie? I don’t know. I don’t know any words that end in ie but Ms. Lynn probably knows. I nod again, I need to remember how to spell my new name. Jackie. Ms. Lynn hands out composition books and tells us to write our names on the front. When I get to the k, all the angled lines look unfamiliar to me. It’s hard to make a pretty looking k.
After school, I do my homework while my little sister Corina watches cartoons, and wait for my parents to come home from work. During dinner, they call me Jacqueline when they tell me to stop picking out the translucent bits of onions from my spaghetti sauce. My sister calls me Jacqueline when she says she’ll eat them and scoops them onto her fork.
I don’t remember if I asked my family to call me Jackie. I must have felt like I was betraying my parents, and also telling myself it was okay because I was supposed to have a nickname. They just didn’t know that. Like I was supposed to have peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, not leftover pork chop slices on brown wholewheat bread. The healthiness of my lunch and the evil sugar in fluff was not the point. I could see with my own eyes that every other kid ate it, and I knew my parents didn’t understand things like school lunch. So they probably also didn’t understand names.
I am now 41 years old. My parents still call me Jacqueline — when only family is around. My younger sister and brother use Jackie; they were quick to notice the change around my friends. At some point in my adulthood, my father remembered to refer to me as Jackie in front of my friends. When I started a new job after college, I tried to rebrand myself as Jacqueline. I still hated the way Jackie sounded. I did not feel like a Jackie. Jackie sounded like a middle-aged soccer mom. I was a sophisticated New Yorker who wore a Theory blazer to work. I’d pick up the ringing phone at my desk and say, “Jacqueline Yen speaking.” After a month or so, I was back to Jackie. It just happened – it seemed easier for everyone to say, remember, and pronounce. I was used to Jackie by then. I stopped thinking about my name for 20 years.
Recently my five year old daughter looked up from drawing a bunny and said, “Jacqueline, can I have some milk?”
“Okay.”
“That’s what popo and gong gong call you.”
She’s so smart. I can’t believe she noticed the difference. She even pronounced it correctly, Jacque-leen. My daughter also knows me as Jackie. When we co-create picture books she writes by Calliope and Jackie on the cover in her gorgeous, scrawling letters – usually in the pink marker. Jackie is her mom, the most beautiful person in the world. I define my name - not the other way around. I want to be called Jackie now, and I love that in Calliope’s eyes, I am also Jacqueline.
H Mart Happiness: What’s your favorite product and why?
“I love the paper thin, sliced frozen pork belly at H-Mart. I thaw it just enough to separate the slices and portion them into little saran-wrapped packages of 3-5 slices each. When I get that craving, I add the pork to ramen for a little extra flavor, meatiness, and decadence. In the Doraville H-Mart, I am also obsessed with the kimbap that the kimbap lady (at the very end) in the food court makes.” - Jackie Y.
What’s your favorite H Mart product? Message us with your favorite in 1-2 sentences and we’ll feature it with a photo right here on the webzine!
