An Experience I Considered Racist

And Why I Changed my Mind.

I sat in a crowded room waiting for my name to be called by the man at the desk so I could walk up to him and change my home address on my student profile. I waited, my head buried in Imbole Mbue’s Behold the Dreamers, until I finally heard my name, or at least what I thought was my name.

The name which appeared as my first name was Ewune, my native name. It is pronounced A-woo-neh, (like how you would say the first “e” in educate and the “ne” in never) Of course the tall, Caucasian gentleman at the desk didn’t know this. He shredded my name with his American accent and it ended up sounding like Eugene. In retrospect, I laugh at this memory, of my African name being metamorphosed in to a name that would most likely suit a British character in a 1930s novel. But in that moment, I nursed anger. The man pronounced my name wrongly three times until he decided that this Eugene was not in the room. After wrestling with a million divisive thoughts, I finally stood up and approached him at the desk. I told him he had pronounced my name wrongly and I received no apology.

Perhaps it was the fault of my crooked and hurried handwriting, or his bad sight, or the fact that he simply did not know how to say such a name, so defaulted to a more comfortable pronunciation. Whatever it was, he didn’t disclose to me. He ignored his mistake and proceeded with requesting what I needed from him. Our discussion went on in a business-like manner. He gave me a form to complete. I did and returned it to him. He told me my request will be processed accordingly. I thanked him and walked away. He called the next, not-so-hard-to-pronounce name and life went on.

I drove home from school that day with one question on my mind: Was that man racist to me? I wasn’t sure; I was in a dilemma until I concluded that it was definitely a kind of discrimination because the man seemed to care less about what the proper pronunciation of my name was. It could have been a microaggression; it was discriminatory in nature and downright rude. Plus he was white and I am black, which at that time was a nuanced, yet strong factor I blindly held on to.

That would not be the first or last time someone would pronounce my name wrongly. The difference between that guy and others who have twisted and turned my name, making me dizzy when they call me, is that they accepted correction, apologized for their fault and made efforts to say my name right even when they failed terribly. I think that is the difference between a rude, insensitive, possibly racist person and a completely ignorant, yet teachable and considerable person.

I use the term possibly racist because there are two factors I did not consider when I concluded, in my anger, that the man at the desk was some unapologetic racist.

1. The room was crowded and he might have been overwhelmed by his inability to attend to all the students in a brief period of time. If you’ve worked in customer service, you know the feeling. I know it all too well because as someone who is striving to be intentional and love others in the moment, I find this hard to do when I am rounding up with a customer and turn to find a line of customers behind me ( I work as a bank teller). This makes me less aware of the weight of my words/actions to the customer I’m currently helping because I’m thinking of the other people needing my help. This in no way justifies rude customer service. It does not justify that man ignoring his fault. I do, however, think it is important to extend the same grace we want to receive from others. I think nuance has to be acknowledged in discussions on racism because not every act that appears racist is truly racist.
2. If the man would have made a nasty comment about my name or its origin would I have a harder time extending grace. Yes! I would have been vividly annoyed and would’ve probably stooped to his level by throwing back the insult and making a scene. But he never said anything or gave me any reason to prolong my stay. He did what was expected of him (though in an unfriendly way).

These are the observations I now make about situations where I suspect that I am being racially discriminated against. Instead of immediately concluding that an act was racist, I ask myself what made it racist, unless the act is so glaringly racist that there is no need for questions. As a black immigrant in America, I want to guard myself from always jumping in to the conclusion that America is embedded in racism because if that is really the case then why did I move here again and why haven’t I moved back?

There will always be culturally incompetent people who will shy away from learning the pronunciation of foreign names. I too have come across European/American/Asian/other African names that have triggered laughter, made me raise my eyebrows, and even ask someone to verify my pronunciation. I too sometimes shy away from learning such names so I do not think butchering names is an inherently racist thing to do. It can be so if the act is done intentionally and mockingly but I’d like to think that most people feel like they’ve hit a wall when they come across a hard-to-pronounce name. It is the actions we take to go over that wall that matter to the people whose names we pronounce.