On the first day of freshman seminar, I sat in a cramped classroom facing 15 other pairs of eyes and introduced myself as a college student for the first time, “Hi guys, I’m April — that’s what everyone can call me.” The name slipped out before I even thought about it. It was easier that way. No one paused to ask me to repeat it, no one stumbled over tones or vowels. But as the introductions continued, I felt a quiet unease. I hadn’t really introduced myself. I had introduced the version of me that fit neatly into Western society. My Chinese first name, Xinpei (馨培), had disappeared before it even had the chance to exist in that room.
For many international students from China, this scene is a familiar one. Before we even board the plane to the United States, we often inherit or “invent” a second name. Some were given to us by English teachers in middle school, others chosen from baby name books or pop culture inspirations. The logic is practical: English names make life easier in Western environments, whereas our real names (rendered in pinyin but pronounced in tones) often become tangled on unfamiliar tongues. At first, the English name feels like a tool for survival, a necessary translation of one’s self. Yet over time, that translation begins to take on a life of its own.
Illustration by Isabella Davidson
Linguists have written about how names function as markers of identity and belonging. In a study of Chinese students’ English naming practices, researcher Wenxia Liu found that adopting an English name often helps students feel socially adaptable, but also creates “dual linguistic selves” that can complicate their true sense of authenticity and identity. Many of us oscillate between the comfort of blending in and the guilt of erasing something deeply personal. When I tell people to call me “April,” I don’t feel like I’m lying or deliberately misleading anyone, but I do feel like I’m editing myself in a way.
Some of my friends make the opposite choice. They insist on using their Chinese names, even when that means enduring five or six versions of mispronunciation in a single week. I’ve watched professors squint at rosters, trying to sound out Zixin as “Zee-zin,” “Zee-shin,” “Zee-sin.” The attempts are well-meaning, even endearing, but eventually wear down patience. My roommate once told me, “Every time someone says it wrong, I feel like I have to start over explaining who I am.” She eventually gave up on correcting her peers altogether. She laughed it off and said, “At least they remember me, even if it’s the wrong me.”
Illustration by Isabella Davidson
That mix of humor and exhaustion captures what it’s like to navigate between languages. Our names become areas of compromise. In English-speaking spaces, pronunciation errors aren’t always intentional acts of disrespect, but they can still feel like micro-aggressions or small reminders of difference. A 2022 study from the University of Alberta found that consistent mispronunciation of heritage names can make people feel “unseen” or disconnected from their cultural roots, especially in academic or professional settings. Another report from the Journal of International Students noted that about three-quarters of international students experience name mispronunciation, and nearly half associate it with a diminished sense of belonging.
These statistics actually capture what many of us already know intimately: when someone stumbles over your name, it’s rarely just a sound that’s wrong; it’s your personal story that’s diminished. My first name, Xinpei, was chosen by my parents because it combines the characters for “warmth” and “cultivation.” In Mandarin, its tones rise and fall softly, a rhythm that feels like home. But in English, “Xinpei” collapses into a stiff cluster of consonants. The name doesn’t roll off tongues; it trips them up. So, to make everyone’s life easier, my reflective reply is now always “You can call me by my English name.”
This negotiation is not unique to Chinese students. Many international students, who are from India, Korea, the Middle East, and beyond, wrestle with similar adjustments. But for Chinese students specifically, English naming has been normalized for decades, built into early education and even pop culture. Kids in primary schools across China are often told to choose an English name as part of their language curriculum. Teachers encourage it as a way to adopt an English identity. By the time we arrive in American universities, the duality is second nature. We switch names as easily as we switch languages.
In college, this blurred identity shows up in subtle ways. On class rosters, Chinese names appear alongside English nicknames in parentheses, as if the two must always coexist: one official, the other functional. During introductions, international students often pause before speaking, debating which identity to present first. Some list both: “Hi, I’m Li Hao, but you can call me Leo.” Others, like me, skip directly to the English one, saving everyone the awkwardness. We tell ourselves it’s no big deal. But the repetition of small compromises builds into something weightier.
Still, I’ve learned that the burden of belonging shouldn’t rest entirely on those with “hard-to-pronounce” names. As educators increasingly acknowledge, pronouncing students’ names correctly isn’t just polite. It’s a way to honor heritage and belonging. The effort of learning names correctly, or at least trying to, can transform classrooms. I’ve had professors ask students to record short name-pronunciation clips at the start of the semester. One even projected the roster and asked each of us to teach the class how to say our names. Yes, it was awkward but it made a difference. I no longer felt like an exception. I felt included.
It’s also about curiosity rather than performance. When someone mispronounces my name and then says, “Wait, can you teach me how to say it again?” — that gesture matters more than getting it perfect. The correction then becomes a conversation, not a burden and reminds us that language isn’t a wall but a bridge that can connect.
Illustration by Isabella Davidson
I do not resent my English name. It’s grown within me, and in many ways, reflects who I’ve become in the United States. It represents confidence, adaptability, and the version of myself that’s learned to navigate a new culture. But when I hear someone say my Chinese name correctly, it feels like I’m being seen in both languages all at once.
At that moment, I do not have to translate myself.
At that moment, my name sounds the way it was meant to.
About the author:
April is a sophomore studying Communication with a minor in the Entertainment Industry. Her work is shaped by living between cultures, moving between languages, and paying attention to the small moments where those worlds collide. If you say her first name correctly in Mandarin, she’ll offer you a sour patch kid.
