By Christian Park-Gastelum, Nov. 26, 2024
I was awarded the longest name reported on a speeding ticket, according to Officer Scott of the Chino Police Department.
Christian Tae-Young Park-Gastelum.
Scott handed my ID back, chuckled and then asked why my name is five words long.
I responded with my lifelong rehearsed response: I am Mexican and Korean. My mom came from Mexico; my dad from South Korea. My dad wanted just Park, but my mom wanted just Gastelum. Eventually they compromised and put both names.
The officer laughed at the debacle in choosing a last name and handed over my ticket but not before telling me his day was made and that he got a hand cramp while writing my citation.
A name holds the history of a person’s experience, laughter, accomplishments, trauma and spirit. It becomes your title, your merit in life, because no story is the same, despite sharing a first and last name with another.
“I really like my last name; it feels like if I would lose that, I would really lose my identity,” sociology student Layla Graham said. “I’m still me without the name, but it reminds me of all the family I have on my dad’s side. They live in the South, and I don’t get to see them often, so it makes me feel connected to them.”
Our sense of identity begins when parents give us a name, because we simply cannot make that decision at birth. As a result, the reflection of parents’ notions of gender, culture, religion, language and family history are shown through the names we are given, according to Taisha A. DeAza.
My parents saw fit to add both their names for me to carry their pride of heritage they have brought with them to the Unite states and once I understood their meaning I chose to be proud of the lengthy name.
I was fortunate enough to enroll in the Academy of Art University in San Francisco high school program in hopes to one day become a sports analyst, specifically a color commentator for the San Francisco Giants.
The director of the School of Communication and Media Technologies happened to be one of the first female native Asian American journalists in the country. Asians in the Bay Area revere her because of the representation she imposes.
We crossed paths and spoke briefly about my aspirations. She took interest in my goals to become a broadcast journalist because of the much-needed representation of Asians on TV.
When she asked for my name, I told her, “Christian Park-Gastelum.” Upon hearing it, a bewildered look crossed her face, and she asked if I could repeat myself. The director attempted to pronounce “Gastelum” but butchered the pronunciation on multiple attempts, even after I phonetically sounded out the name to her.
Ultimately, giving up, telling me to rid of “Gastelum” because it is too hard to pronounce. She also warned me that in the show business industry, if an employer could not easily pronounce my name, my application would be thrown out immediately.
It is easy to simplify a name or give yourself a nickname for others to smoothly pronounce, however, an unfamiliar name with new sounds and dialects to pronounce becomes your reflection of history and identity.
“When people feel that they need to compromise their identities for social acceptance, their emotional well-being inevitably suffers,” said Harvard Business Review writer Rajat Panwar. “Simply put, anglicizing names undermines inclusivity. When you refuse to make an effort to pronounce someone’s name correctly, it suggests that you’re choosing your own linguistic comfort over their identity.”
I politely disagreed with the director and explained the significance of my full last name.
I represent my family’s trials and tribulations. My dad worked three jobs in his 20s and 30s, providing for my sister and me. My mom and aunt struggled to overcome the language barrier when they immigrated from…. All of them have achieved success and showed me and my sisters to hustle through hardships and never make excuses.
My family has earned the right for others to call me by my proper name.
The self-imposed importance begins with your story and the uniqueness of your name. Nobody understands your past trials, tribulations or efforts to achieve accolades and success.
Park explains why I look Asian. I am predominantly Korean-looking and most knowledgeable in Korean foods, but no, I do not speak Korean.
Gastelum represents my culture, the Spanish-speaking, Vicente Fernández-singing household in which I was raised. Yes, I speak Spanish and grew up eating huevos con weenies for breakfast, but no, you would never guess that based on my appearance.
A name’s value derives from the triumphs and struggles forever endured by current and past experiences from adolescence until now.
There is no such thing as a boring story.
“My name ties back to who I am, my identity,” said animal science student and a decendent of Mexican-Malaysian parents, Jaiden Camacho. “My parents have instilled in me, ‘You should be proud of where you come from, proud of your heritage.’ When my abuelo came over, he worked in a factory. My parents saved and spent their money well to give me a better life. That’s part of my identity; that’s part of my heritage. My name, I can’t give up because it’s such an inherit part of my roots.”
My personal anecdote ends with the director refusing to accept the odd-sounding, three-word first and last name.
Sacrificing part of my last name makes it easier to pronounce, and to her, that took priority over my lived history and culture.
Identifying yourself reflects the story you want to tell others.
Parents began our lives giving our names based on their hopes, dreams and desires for their newborn.
We grow older with our names creating newly profound identities through experiences that will be passed forward.
Though some may share first and last names, the individual stories are always unique, always interesting and worth being proud of.
A short, long or unique sounding name adds the representation missing from all industries. It carries the weight of your history and is worth being taught to pronounce correctly, even if it is five words long.
Feature image by Lauren Wong
