Syllabus week is a wonderful time of reunions, reclaimed freedom from parental oppression, and a disregard for that thing that seems to pester us each morning (or early afternoon, for the less ambitious) — class.
In the haze of first lectures and discussions, I always experience a syllabus week tradition of my own—my professors’ inevitable confusion as they stumble through my first name during roll call.
Chaeyoung. It is hard to pronounce if you’re not Korean, thanks to the butchered anglicized spelling. That is why I have always gone by my more manageable middle name, Iris. With the exception of my family, the majority of my life was spent ignoring that other name, my Korean name—my real name.
To be honest, I was ignorant of my true identity for a while. When my family joined the 21st century with AOL back in the days of dial-up, my first screen name was ICK123, based on what I thought were my initials. No one bothered to correct me.
I became more aware of my dual moniker as I grew older and saw more documents that read “Chaeyoung Iris Kim”—and this confusion has plagued me for years. Even my parents don’t quite grasp what they themselves did. My mother unwittingly enrolled me in school as Iris Kim. This didn’t seem significant until February of my senior year of high school, when half of the schools I applied to sent me multiple notifications of incomplete applications. Yes, even though I had a private meeting with my guidance counselor about the possibility of a mix up, which ended with me asking her to send all materials under my legal name, the office still sent my transcript and letters of recommendation to be filed with the application of some other Iris Kim. Needless to say, I did not receive admission to any of those universities.
At this point, my dual identity was no longer something that differentiated my home life and my social life. It was an annoyance. As I became old enough to get a license, register to vote, and apply to colleges, I had to severely alter my habits. To this day, I can never sign Chaeyoung properly. You will always see three hanging loops when there should be two. I can, however revert back to the signature I know better, because my mother opened my emergency credit card under the false name Iris C. Kim.
I am aware that I can change my name. My brother did it easily when he became old enough, easily switching around Korean and American names. I could go to court and formalize the more convenient Iris, but I don’t really want to. Something about my two names, and the fact that I can become two different people is attractive. I am the very first person with the initials CIK to receive a Georgetown email address, with no numbers cluttering up my NetID. If employers want to find me, it will be a struggle, as most of my online life is under the other alias. It is kind of nice, in a way, to not be pegged down as one particular thing.
I respond to and really enjoy both names. In some sense, I am an amalgamation of both names and would be incomplete without each. Especially knowing the thought that went into choosing my two names makes me appreciate them more. My father spent a month deliberating a proper name for the daughter he always wanted. I was nameless for the first month of my life. Eventually he chose Chaeyoung, as the corresponding Chinese characters mean “bright” and “glistening.” Even the selection of “Iris” as my second name was truly kudos-worthy on my parents’ part, as most other Korean girls with immigrant parents simply have Biblical and/or generic names. I have sibling cousins named Michelle and Michael.
When I was 16, my parents became naturalized citizens, and as a minor, I inherited their new American identity as well. This meant that I had to shrug off my South Korean citizenship, as they deny dual passports. I know that this denouncement made logical sense, since I don’t foresee myself returning to the homeland for good. However, just because the South Korean government denied my dual identity, doesn’t mean that I have to succumb to the narrow characterization as well.
As professors awkwardly attempt my name and look around apologetically, I always just raise my hand and help them out. “You can call me Iris.” They always look relieved, and I always know that despite their confusion, and my own, I’ll keep the tradition that ironically asserts my identity.
