My Name is My Identity
Note: If you’re a non-Tamil speaker, Thendral is a literary term used to describe the wind that comes from the South in India. My ancestors had an affinity for naming and classifying things so they classified the winds from the different directions and identified the wind blowing from the South as a cooling breeze. The term “Thendral” is often used in many literary works, from the classical literature of the past to the Tamil pop songs of today to describe something pleasant and lovely. Not that I see myself that way.
I used to hate the first day of school or the first day a new teacher joins our class. Not because I didn’t like school in itself but because there would be the whole ordeal of attendance taking, calling out names to put faces to, and the obligatory sharing of something interesting about ourselves. As my name is printed as “Uthaman Thendral” in my birth certificate, at least one of the periods would go as follows every single year.
“UTH –?” A squint of the eyes as the teacher takes a closer look at the paper in front of them. “UTHAMAN?” They would call out, looking around at the more brown toned kids in the class.
“Me!” I would answer as soon as I recognise the “Uth” sound, hastily punching my hand in the air. “It’s Thendral actually.” I would add in, apologetically.
“What?” The teacher would ask in confusion as they look back down at the attendance sheet.
“Um. I’m Thendral. It’s the second name? Thendral?” I would reply, more like a question as though I was looking for Thendral rather than clarifying that I am Thendral.
The teacher would frown at the paper as though this has only further confused things. “So who is Uthaman?” They would ask after a beat.
“My dad?” I would answer meekly as my cheeks get hotter from the attention I was getting from my classmates.
The teacher would look back down at the attendance sheet with an ill-concealed trace of annoyance as they made a note before moving on to the next name. Without acknowledging that they heard my correction, getting my name right, or verifying how to pronounce it at all. I would sink back in my chair with pure relief that this 10 seconds of pure agony was over, avoiding the eyes of the classmates who would still be staring at me and pushing away the trace of guilt I felt at being such an inconvenience. I wondered every single year why my name simply wasn’t “Thendral Uthaman” so that it was easier for everyone. I was a working adult before I realised that most Chinese names, the majority of the names you would see in attendance sheets here, started with the surnames. “Tan”s and “Lee”s precedented my classmates’ actual names. Yet no one called out for a Tan or a Lee. They all got their names called. But I was often, and if memory serves correctly, almost always, “Uthaman”.
These were the unfriendly teachers. The “nicer” teachers would ask if I had a short form or a nickname. “Or an English name, maybe?” with increased hope in their eyes. I did. For a hot 5 months. It was Lizzy, short for Elizabeth because I came across it in Sweet Valley High and I thought it was so cool to have the alphabet “Z” in your name. As a matter of fact, I still do! But it just didn't feel right and I went on being Thendral. Meanwhile, I saw Vickneshwary become Vicky, Jagan become Jay and even something as seemingly easy as Priya become Pri around me. But I couldn’t do that to my name. And so I became even more annoyed with it. I nearly hated my name in primary school. No cute nicknames, and how on earth do you even anglicise it? Translate it and go “It’s okay you can call me breeze instead!”?
For all my school and university life, I responded to anything that sounded remotely like my name. Because my name was often deemed too difficult to pronounce or was simply butchered. In fact, I’ve been so conditioned to respond to anything that sounds remotely like my name that I responded to a colleague’s name at my previous workplace simply because her name starts with the alphabet T. It has an S in the middle and ends with a T. Yet I responded every single time I heard her name.
To be fair, this dissonance was primarily in the majority race setting. In the Tamil community, my name always sparks a reaction. “What a beautiful name!” is a standard reaction from Tamil teachers in school to Instagram DMs today (Some even asked if I had picked it out as my cool pen name. No, my name really is Thendral!) In fact, what I love more than the flattering reaction to my name is the fact that their reaction is a dead giveaway that they have some knowledge of Tamil. But all that didn’t matter to me for a long, LONG time. What mattered was that my name didn’t fit with the Singaporean I so desperately tried to be when I was younger. When I so desperately wanted to fit in. When I so desperately didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that I’m a minority in certain circumstances. And so, I compartmentalised it. Just like how I put parts of myself on mute when I need to fit in and seem like I belong in some of the majority settings. I have a great name in a Tamil setting and only in a Tamil setting. Everywhere else, it’s something I have to get over with so that the person I'm interacting with can pronounce the bare minimum of this two-syllable word and use it to acknowledge me for the rest of our interaction. And so I developed a kind of a love-hate relationship with my name.
Until a particular incident, that was barely a minute long that made me go from being indifferent about my name to “You know what, I have an AWESOME name and I’m OWNING it from here on!” In 2015, I went to the USA to participate in a conference. The trip was great, I loved it, and soon it was time to come back to Singapore. So there I was in Hartsfield–Jackson Atlanta International Airport, checking into my British Airways flight, incredibly wary of the near 27-hour flight journey ahead of me and extremely nervous because anything synonymous with the law makes me suddenly feel like I’ve committed every single crime fathomable. I was surrounded by so many people who were so obviously non-Tamil speakers when suddenly, the lady supervising my check-in officer went “Wow, you have a beautiful name!” Completely thrown off, I responded with “You know Tamil?!” and my jaw slack. And she goes ever so casually, “Well, I’m mixed, my mum’s Tamil, and whenever she comes to visit, I source all her Tamil dramas for her!” We exchanged a few more pleasantries while the non-Tamil speaking staff exchanged polite and confused smiles. And honestly, it has been one of the biggest mood lifters in my entire life! There I was in an American airport, waiting to board an English flight, surrounded by people of every race except Tamil and then there was my name, getting a reaction from someone half Tamil! I’m completely used to chatting with check-in officers solely on the account of my name in the airports of Singapore, Malaysia, and of course, India. But something about my name being recognised in a country I didn’t expect to, at a point when I was feeling homesick just felt so special. The fact that the lady clearly felt some sort of affinity towards me upon recognising my name and thus the fact that I’m Tamil was just the cherry on top! And I walked away from the check-in counter towards the departure area with my head held just a little higher. All because of a name.
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet”
That’s what Juliet said because Romeo is a Montague. I don’t know if I would be any different if I had a different name. Especially if I was an Elizabeth/ Lizzie like my 10-year-old self wanted to be. If it would have shaped my personality in any different way. I don’t know if people would have said I’m just like my name as they do now if I had a different name. But I do know with certainty since that singular episode at the airport that my name is who I am. And because of its literary connotations, it brings me closer to the one identity I’ve always felt comfortable acknowledging – that I’m Tamil as it doesn’t carry a flag or a nation with it. I've always known the value of my name, but something about that episode was a like switch - and I just stopped taking my name for granted. I was no longer "Thendral" in a sheepish, rueful tone because I knew how difficult it was going to be to pronounce. I became unapologetically Thendral. And nope, no nicknames or short names. If you can pronounce Timothée Chalamet and Saoirse Ronan, you can do just fine with my name. I am Thendral. It is a great conversation starter with people who know Tamil, I've had some beautiful interactions simply because the other person realised I'm Tamil and I just love the uniqueness of it. What's more, my dad gave me this name because he wanted something special for his daughter and he's well-read in Tamil Language and Literature. He is a Tamil teacher so not only does my name tie in his story, but it also ties in the story of how my family are immigrants in Singapore. And I no longer saw a need in separating the value of my name from the situation I was in. Full disclosure, the only exception I have for this is at Starbucks. I mean, honestly, it's Starbucks. Standing there, spelling out “T-H-E-N-D-R-A-L” and holding up the line for people who just want their caffeine TO GO, especially in the morning, just feels downright cruel and like a punishable offence. I opt for “Just call for T!” instead. Leave it to Starbucks to morph it into "tee", "dee", and on one occasion, "tea" though. It was a very confusing day at the drink collection area that day. Of course, I'm not the only person who has had an identity crisis or felt ashamed as a result of their name. I share this experience with many minorities. In fact, I do know that there are quite a few Thendrals around. I don't know how many of them have lived an immigrant experience or if they shared a similar experience in trying to navigate and appreciate their name as much as I do. But I do know for a fact that there is only one Thendral Uthaman. And this was my journey.
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