Two Names

I have two names. But I never say that when people ask me what my name is. 

To my newly made childhood friends, I would cheerfully chirp “my name is Sarah!” and took immense pride in my English name. I would search up what it meant and the same thing always popped up with the cheesy phrases and baby names websites: “Your name means princess! The Hebrew origin of the name was featured all throughout history.” I would be overjoyed. I would brag to all my elementary friends that my name meant royalty and my little dreams and imaginations of fantastical fairytales were coming true. To my white neighbors, I would at first bashfully hide behind my mother while she was introducing herself with that comforting voice I hadn’t yet realized was so heavily accented by her Chinese roots, but soon I would prance up with a sudden burst of childish energy and beam while saying my name in that undeveloped and squeaky voice. My neighbors would smile and “aww” and from that moment on, I thought that being named “Sarah” was the best possible name an American-born girl could ever have.

But I have another name. The name that barely ever escapes the warm hug of the arms that stretches over my family, the hug that serves as a tight household where certain sentences stay etched into the wooden floor and unspoken words linger with a hesitant boldness in the air. The name that only ever escapes my family’s mouths and almost never anyone else’s, and the half of me that has accepted with pride that I am not in fact American-born but Chinese-born. Stayed locked in a cage, hidden away, and covered by the tattered blanket of the home where only relatives and heritage are welcome. Even as a young child, I could instantly sense whether or not it was approved to give this name to someone new: the person would have to possess the features that apparently all East-Asian people share, meaning raven black hair and yellow skin and specific enunciation of words. Given by my grandfather, adored by my parents — Jialu, meaning “precious jade”.

As Sarah, the name all my friends call me, I am simply just Sarah. I am this American girl in an American school with American friends doing American things, and I have no problem with that at all. At school, I remind teachers to put the often forgotten “h” at the end of my name when they write me a pass, and I laugh with friends when I accidentally think someone’s trying to get my attention but they are actually just talking to their own Sarah, as my English name is common. And then the familiar bell of dismissal rings, my head is resting on the window of the school bus while counting the number of blue cars I see pass by, and there is the wonderful relaxation of tiring classes being over. Dad’s maroon van is parked by the curb as usual, and the second I plop down into the leather seat and shut the door, I am Jialu. Sarah has vanished completely, being able to rest as Jialu’s cage gets unlocked and she emerges from the iron bars of Sarah’s shame. And just like that, I am now a Chinese girl with her Chinese family, effortlessly switching to the language and momentarily forgetting all about who I am as Sarah. I get to speak Chinese without feeling as though I’m an outsider and being judged by other American kids, I can enjoy my culture’s cuisine without having people making disgusted remarks when I off-handedly mention how I eat chicken feet and pig trotters and ox tongue, and I can feel as though I fit in with all of the other Chinese teenagers who are on to getting into Harvard and making their own families proud with their accomplishments. 

But then there’s the clash. The blurring of the two worlds my two names remain in, where all of a sudden Sarah and Jialu have to be in the same place at once and both identities are utterly lost, confused as to how to act and speak and think. It’s a chaotic frenzy trying to catch Jialu, stuffing her back into her cage where she belongs and keeping her in a chokehold until Sarah has finished her role as the perfect American girl and gone back home where Jialu can finally be let out. 

I have two names. Not a middle name, not a nickname. One simple name with five letters, in a solid stance one right after the other, and one other name with not letters but characters. As Sarah, I’m afraid of letting my caged-up name out, and as Jialu, I loathe Sarah for being afraid. But I have plans. I have plans on not flinching and slinking away every time my American classmates whisper racist words that poke and prod me, begging me to let Jialu escape and show them how beautiful my Chinese culture is. Because no matter how much Sarah hates it, that is also part of who I am. Sarah is Jialu, Jialu is Sarah, and both of them are me.