I signed up to go ziplining on my most recent vacation in the mountains. I’m a self-proclaimed city mouse, not someone who could be described as “outdoorsy”. I was feeling nervous but determined to have a good time.
One at a time, the guide hooked us onto the zipline, asked our name and wished us a good time as we jumped along the course. I told him my name and he paused for a second. “Oh, okay,” he replied before pushing me over the treetops, sending me screaming to the other side.
My driver didn’t know it or mean it, but his quick comment was one of many caustic interactions I’ve endured over my name.
A year ago, things would have been different. I’d tell him my name is Jennifer and he’d say, “Nice to meet you, Jennifer!” — as it had for all other participants.
Six-year-old Ha, second from right, sits with her mother Joo Hye Lee, left, her maternal grandmother Jung Ja Choi and her father Hee Gyu Ha at a restaurant at Seoul–Incheon International Airport on September 1 2001, before boarding their flight to Vancouver. (Submitted by Yeon Soo Ha)
I was six years old in 2001 when my family immigrated to Surrey, BC from Seoul. As part of settling in a new country, we adopted the common practice among many Korean immigrants of choosing “English names”. I became Jennifer. It was the year Jennifer Lopez was selling out concerts and movie theaters, and the name was stuck in my parents’ heads. It was popular and easy for my parents to remember. It was convenient.
Throughout my life, I have introduced myself to countless people as Jennifer, many of whom had mothers, sisters, best friends, or cousins who shared the name. No one mispronounced Jennifer. And no one spelled it wrong, even in coffee shops.
But as I grew older, the ease of being Jennifer was overshadowed by my doubts. I couldn’t help but wonder: To whom was this ease?
One summer day in 2021, I was going through my stuff on a mission to declutter. In a photo album was a booklet that was given to my parents by the hospital when I was born. It says I was born in the afternoon, weighing 3.7kg. It lists the address of the hospital and the names of my parents and the doctor.
The space labeled “baby name” is empty.
Ha was going through an old photo album when she found this booklet containing details of her birth. The field for her name was left blank because her parents took her home to meet other relatives before naming her. (Submitted by Yeon Soo Ha)
My parents took me home from the hospital without a name, choosing to spend some time with each set of grandparents before making this important decision. The name my family finally chose has a meaning behind each character — as most Korean names do: Yeon (연) meaning lotus and Soo (수) meaning excellent or excellent.
I was named after a flower that blooms even in mud.
With this artifact showing the care and concern my entire family gave to Yeon Soo, I realized that this – and not Jennifer – was my one, true name.
That fall, I started a new job in accessibility and inclusion. The blank slate of a new career seemed like a sign to get my name back. I slowly started sharing the idea with friends and family, all of whom were incredibly supportive. Many asked — sometimes more than once — how to pronounce it correctly, and then tried to use it. These gestures meant a lot to me.
Understandably, sometimes people made mistakes and I had to correct them. Those moments felt uncomfortable, but hearing a name that didn’t seem real felt worse.
The process of adopting a name that is new to others but not to me required me to be patient, vulnerable and uncomfortable. Since making the switch, I have had to constantly reflect on my values and prioritize my sense of self over the convenience of others.
In my work, I support individuals and organizations in creating more accessible spaces. I examine various barriers and provide recommendations on how to overcome them. One of the simplest things I recommend is substantive introductions, where participants share their name and pronouns.
As an undergraduate student at the University of Alberta’s Augustana campus, Ha — then with Jennifer — began a project, which spanned several years, where participants shared their name and the meaning behind it. (Submitted by Yeon Soo Ha)
There are many reasons a person may choose to take a new name at any point in their life. All of them deserve appreciation and respect.
Being Yeon Soo means I get to live out the values I encourage professionally in a personally meaningful way.
Being Yeon Soo also means explaining my name in my email signature (“Please note that my first name is “Yeon Soo” — both words). It means that my name is misspelled and mispronounced by medical professionals, colleagues, acquaintances, even friends. It means I have to be polite and patient when people hesitate to say my name when they meet me at a virtual work mixer or birthday party. It means I don’t get sent from my zipline instructor It means I feel uncomfortable, weird, or too difficult for others on a small but consistent basis.
Ultimately, though, being Yeon Soo means reclaiming my sense of self. It means deciding every day not to live for the convenience of others.
But from time to time, I still take advantage of the convenience of being Jennifer.
Like when I place my order in a coffee shop.
Do you have a similar experience with this first-person column? We want to hear from you. Write to us at [email protected]
