U. Mungunchimeg

I am 24, a Mongolian that grew up in Ulaanbaatar until the age of 12 and immigrated to the US. As an immigrant with a 12 letter last name and a first name that started with the letter U and unconventional (more like non-western) letter placement, I’ve always thought of changing my name so people would stop questioning my name and my belonging in America.

I’ve thought of changing my first name to Melody which was the literal translation of my first name. I’ve thought of marrying a white man with the last name Smith so I could find a belonging, so people would stop questioning me.

When I was in college, I’d signed up to donate blood with the red cross. We had to write our names on a sticker and we’d be called when it was our turn. I wrote Uyanga, my first name, and patiently waited while seated. The middle aged white man began to mutter my name “Uhhh- You-Gan-Dah?” “That’s me, Oo-yawn-gah” I corrected. “Don’t you have one of those English names??? All you Chinese kids have them, what’s yours?”

I felt so small and so othered and so “exotic” “oriental” that all I said was “uhh, you can call me Melody.” That interaction started a fire in me, the lack of response from me to put him in place angered me more. I began to use Uyanga proudly and began to correct people proudly. Yet, in this racist, xenophobic, capitalist society, I only get call backs from employers when I use the nickname Melody over Uyanga. Coworkers tell me “Uyanga is an easy name!” as they continue to use Melody and avoid the pronunciation as much as they could. I haven’t broken out of the stereotype, all I CAN do is continue to correct people until they respect me enough to try to call me by my name.