Flickr: Scott Catron

Can difficult-to-pronounce Arabic names be as American as apple pie?

The Washington Post series about life for Muslim-Americans started off with the profile of a Palestinian-American who ditched his “Americanized” name for his legal one. His decision made me think about my own struggle in reclaiming my given name.

Fawaz Ismail grew up in Texas where he asked everyone to call him Tony, a name that “put people at ease.” He remained Tony after he moved to Northern Virginia, where he helped expand his family’s flag business. But Ismail dropped his nickname after the backlash against Muslims in the wake of the Sept. 11 attacks.

Now, a decade later, his name is a daily message to his fellow Americans: They must deal with him for who he is — a Muslim who loves his country and proudly sells its banner.

“A lot of people use a nickname to make it easier for Americans to pronounce,” he says, “but now, I don’t care. They’re going to have to pronounce my name. It’s not that hard — Fah-wahz.”

Many immigrants and second-generation Americans go by nicknames rather than their legal names for a number of reasons. I’m one such example. I grew up up in a small, rural and mostly-white Maryland town, and my parents decided I should go by the nickname Ele rather than my real, very Persian name: Elahe, the Arabic word for goddess (pronounced Eh-la-heh). They went by “Americanized” names themselves in an effort to make life easier, to assimilate as quickly as possible in a foreign land. And for 21 years, I was Ele (pronounced Elie). It wasn’t until after college  that I decided to make the switch to my real name, both in my personal and professional worlds.

My decision was like Ismail’s; why must I accommodate or change my identity to convenience others or make them feel more comfortable?

Friends and family, for the most part, quickly adapted to the name change. But as a journalist, I’m constantly meeting new people and trying to develop sources. People aren’t as likely to remember difficult-to-pronounce names and they certainly don’t feel as comfortable saying them. I spend a considerable amount of time explaining how to pronounce it and answering inevitable follow-up questions, such as “where are you from?” All of those minutes add up, and it’s tiring having to explain yourself all the time — sometimes you just want to move on with your day.

I don’t have a foreign accent, English is my primary language and I was born in the U.S — it’s home. I can only imagine how much more difficult to would be to go by my real name if I didn’t have those things going for me. Many of us second-generation Americans have the luxury of being able to reclaim our names. But for our parents’ generation, the choice to go by an “Americanized” name isn’t just about making life easier for others. It’s about making life easier for yourself.

It’s been more than five years since I made the decision to drop my “Americanized” name. From time to time, I’ll run into an old friend who calls me Ele and it feels as if they’re talking about someone else. Or perhaps just a former version of myself, someone who didn’t make the effort to embrace the totality of who she was. Now, Elahe feels like me. And it’s just as American as Ele or Tony.

Flickr: The White House

President Barack Obama

Aside from the politically-charged debate surrounding President Barack Obama’s decision to reveal his long-form birth certificate this week, the story highlighted something for me on a highly personal level: questioning the “American-ness” of second-generation Americans.

First, a word about me: I’m Iranian-American, born and raised in D.C. and Maryland, respectively. And on the numerous occasions I’ve been asked, “Where are you from?” I give the accurate response to that question: D.C. and Maryland. Rural Maryland, in fact, where bringing cowbells to both football games and high school graduations is the norm, and a common excuse for being late to class is claiming you got stuck behind a tractor on a two-lane road. I can’t think of anything more stereotypically small-town American.

My response is typically met with a blank stare, and perhaps a follow-up of “No, really. Where?” I know the answer I gave is not the one wanted, despite its accuracy.

If President Obama has to prove his “American-ness,” what hope is there for the rest of us? I usually conduct my daily life oblivious to the fact that perhaps some people view me as less American than my white and black brothers and sisters. And the stark rise in hate crimes against people of my ethnicity gives me even more reason to feel anxious.

Asking “Where are you from?” may seem innocent enough, and I have no doubt that the vast majority of the people who ask it of me don’t mean to imply that I’m not American – it’s often asked by people who have nothing but nice things to say about Persian culture. But regardless of its intent, the question reminds me that because of my appearance and “exotic” name, I’m “other.” It assumes that I can’t possibly be from “here.”

I know I’m not alone. One in five children in the U.S. has at least one immigrant parent (three percent of U.S. children have a Middle Eastern parent). In D.C., 19,000 of the city’s 111,000 children were born in the U.S. to immigrant parents. How many of them are asked where they are from?

All of this isn’t to say that I, or other second-generation Americans, aren’t also proud of our heritage and roots. But to be American means living in a multicultural (and increasingly multiracial) society. Does one ethnic group really have more of a right to claim American identity than another? (Notable exception: Native Americans.) I, like all of us, can be both proud to be an American and celebrate my heritage. I take back the cowbell and tractor comment — I can’t think of anything more American than that.