“Koichi, could you read the following passage to the class?” Every new semester, my professors find a new way to say my name. For just a second, I think about correcting the mispronunciation, but my instinctual unwillingness to stir the pond takes over. As the situation continues, some classmates shoot me half-embarrassed glances as they uneasily wait for my reaction. Will I call the professor on it, create a scene and send her into a slew of humiliating apologies? Instead, I shrug it off and accept the botched name as just another in a long history of mispronunciations. I’m used to it. So used to it, in fact, that I even do it myself.
My real name is Kazuo Oishi. It’s Japanese. The “Kazuo” part is a three-syllable word pronounced with a “Kah” as in the end of the word “America,” followed by a “zoo” sound, and ending with an “o” sound as in “gold.” The “Oishi” part is also three syllables and is pronounced as it’s spelled. Emphasis is placed on the “o” sound in order to distinguish “Oishi” from a similar sounding word in Japanese meaning “delicious.”
When I have to introduce myself, however, I alternate between a version of “Kazuo” which combines the last two syllables into one “zo” sound like in “Zorro” and switches the “Kah” sound at the beginning to “Ka” like in “cannon” and another similar two-syllable pronunciation which switches the “Kah” sound with a “Kaw” as in “college.” Either way, I’m pronouncing my name wrong. Identity crisis? You bet.
I first encountered this problem in kindergarten. Socialized education in Canada only paid for a half-day of public kindergarten, so my mother filled the other half by sending me to a private kindergarten. From the start, teachers and classmates from the morning kindergarten called me by the “Kaw” version of my name while in the afternoon I was referred to by the “Ka” version.
I once read that humans build most of their identity based on what they experience between the ages of five and eight. At age six, I had already encountered a world of dualities. Like Bruce Wayne by day and Batman by night, I was Kawzo by morning and Kahzo by afternoon—virtually day and night by kindergarten standards.
Recently, I discovered that the discrepancy between the two pronunciations of my name was a source of much anxiety for the people around me. Upon mentioning the issue to my roommate’s girlfriend, she burst out, “I thought it something that everyone just knew and wasn’t supposed to ask!” She begged me to tell her which pronunciation I preferred. Much to her utter disillusion I could only tell her that both were equally acceptable.
Compare this anxiety of unasked questions to the confusion of identifying a baby’s gender. A baby wearing unisex clothing can leave observers baffled and embarrassed to ask the parents for the baby’s sex. In this case, there is no gray area. There is a truth to be found.
This is not the case with my name. I live in a perpetual gray area. Moreover, unlike kindergarten when the two Kazuos existed in separate worlds, nowadays both pronunciations jostle for control. I am forced to make the split-second decision between Kawzo and Kahzo every time I meet someone new. Confusion prevails as the newly introduced confronts the reality that half of everybody else calls me by the opposite pronunciation, not realizing that unlike software, versions 1.0 and 2.0 exist simultaneously and are equally as effective.
Nevertheless, I’ve learned to live with the situation. The illusion of black and white has long left me, and I am better equipped to handle this reoccurring theme in my daily life. I have also learned that there are some things that are completely beyond my control and the more I fight to own my name, the more stressful meeting new people will be. Only when I meet someone who is Japanese and knows the correct pronunciation of my name am I uncomfortable introducing myself. In these rare instances, I quickly utter my name under my breath and hope that the receiver manages to piece together the sounds into a coherent word.
So for those who haven’t met me yet, as well as those who have but aren’t sure if they’re pronouncing my name right, I’m not particularly offended by your approximate pronunciation of Kazuo, nor should anybody feel uncomfortable if their pronunciation is especially unique. Even if you say “Koichi,” I probably won’t correct you either.
Kazuo Oishi is a sophomore in the College and contributing editor of The Georgetown Voice. Did he mention he’s Canadian, eh?
