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From Mispronunciation to Identity: My Name's Journey

By Meda Brazas

I sit cross-legged, watching as my classmates walk up proudly to receive their certificates, the principal calling them one by one by name, gently shaking their hands and offering them a warm smile. “Emma, Michael, Ava, . . . MAY-da??”. The scratchy voice booms into the microphone. “MAY-da??”. MAY-da. Oh, that’s me. Of course. That’s another person who cannot pronounce such a strange, simple name. I stand up, my legs numb from sitting too long, sluggishly walking up to the stage to receive the award. I am not ‘May-da’. It doesn’t belong to me. I watch as my parents proudly take a picture of me holding onto some stranger’s award. My hands become sweaty, heavily sticking to the gold rim of the paper certificate like honey, leaving a noticeable imprint. It’s not mine.

So I remain silent. I watch as my friends' faces become filled with admiration, them turning their certificates over and over, the white sheet of paper becoming one of their honored prized possessions.

I remind myself that I am used to it. I have already spent six years of elementary school being called by a name I don’t claim as my own. Years and years of being gifted with awards that had been announced with a stranger’s name. It’s all becoming a blur really, all buzzing in my brain. I had wished someone would correct them, that they would figure it out themselves. I lose hope each time.

***

My name is Meda. Meh-duh. Not May-da. Not Mee-da. Not Mei-day. A name that consists of just four letters, two consonants and two vowels. I always knew it was a Lithuanian name. A name that meant honey. A name given to me by my parents who immigrated from Lithuania into America. But that was all I knew of it until I was assigned an immigration project my junior year of high school.

***

Now, ten years after elementary school, I am sitting in a tight high school classroom, barely awake, watching my history teacher pace around the room introducing a project. A project. I feel my legs going numb from sitting far too long in this uncomfortable desk. “Meda”, the scratchy voice of the teacher utters, “will you pass out these papers?”. I am snapped back to reality when I realize the teacher has called my name. Something is different... I stand up and that’s when I realize it - she said my name right. I pass out the papers, a slight secret smile creeping across my face, at the fact that my teacher pronounced my name correctly. I realized that since elementary school, people had not been messing up my name, but if they did I corrected them, I was no longer an outsider. It no longer stings.

A few hours later, after school ends, I sit at the family dining table, across from my parents, explaining the long directions the history teacher gave us, how we are required to interview an immigrant, learn about their experience, passions and challenges, and make it into a video. Proudly, they explain their challenging journey as immigrants from Lithuania, how the language, culture, and people were different. Afterward, two years later, I was born and they were left with a difficult decision - choosing a name. 

In Lithuanian, my mom says, “We wanted to choose a unique name, a Lithuanian name that Americans could easily pronounce. We thought Meda would be simple. A four-letter name consisting of only a few letters that can be easily pronounced.” 

“But,” my dad chimes in, “we realized that we were wrong, whenever people asked for your name to be repeated. They would pause, ask again, and then ask for the spelling!”, he exclaims, chuckling as he remembers these common incidents.

***

The immigration project not only let me learn more about my parents but has allowed me to become more aware of how overlooking one’s culture can impact identity as a Lithuanian born into American society. Identifying with a particular culture allows an individual to have feelings of belonging and security. But with the endless name mispronunciations, I felt lost between being American and Lithuanian.

I have been taught that there are other ways to identify yourself with - personality traits, your opinions and beliefs, and especially the things that motivate you. I never told anyone they were saying my name incorrectly, where instead, I took the lonesome time to really learn who I was. I became the stranger who played the piano, attended tennis classes right after school, loved baking desserts and the outdoors. By discovering these hobbies at such a young age, it prepared me for when I moved to a new middle school and high school, where I was able to walk through the hallways and hear people greet me with my true name and their warm smiles.

Meda. The name I get to hear my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins say when

visiting Lithuania. The name I am referred to in Lithuanian school, in various Lithuanian events and by my Lithuanian friends. 

Meda. The name people in America have difficulty pronouncing. The name that lowered my confidence in the early years of childhood.

But I no longer hold onto a stranger’s name. I am not nameless. My name holds my parents’ past experiences, Lithuanian values, and a piece of identity I never really had. Through the years of name mispronunciations, learning about my parents' immigrant story, and embracing my Lithuanian heritage, I have realized that language not only shapes how others see me, but also how I understand myself. It has become a powerful tool for self-expression and identity. So, it does not belong to a stranger, it belongs to me. A name people can call me by: Meda.