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6 hours ago
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Growing up, there was a wearying and familiar pattern for me on the first day of school, or whenever a substitute teacher took the register.
“Blake.”
“Here, sir.”
“Aaron.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm … wow … how do I …? Please forgive me if I mispronounce your name.”
My seven-year-old self would look up in anticipation of this awkward moment, and see a mixture of fear, panic and confusion as the teacher gazed at my name. You’re probably wondering how to pronounce it as you read this.
“It’s Xaymaca [zy-ma-ka], sir.”
I like to get in there first, to minimise any embarrassment. I’ve heard it all, from “Zakamaya”, to “Can I call you something for short?”, to “I’m not even going to try pronouncing that”.
My name is considered cool at best, and weird at worst. But beyond the difficult first interactions, I have the kind of name that could have a detrimental impact on my life, and my finances. A 2022 study of the US job market investigated the employment outcomes of more than 1,500 job applicants from 96 economics PhD programmes. It found that candidates with difficult-to-pronounce names were much less likely to find their first academic job, and when they did, it was at institutions with lower research standards.
My Yoruba surname, Awoyungbo, only adds to the difficulties I could face in the job market. According to research by the Centre for Social Investigation at Nuffield College, University of Oxford, people like me with Nigerian heritage need to send 80% more applications than white Britons to receive a positive response from an employer.
None of this is a surprise to those of us who have long lived with the impacts of such prejudice. Some of us decide to shorten our names to make them easier to pronounce. The actor and comedian Mindy Kaling shortened her Tamil surname, Chokalingam, because emcees at comedy gigs had trouble pronouncing it. “It’s bittersweet,” she said in 2020, “but I have to say, it was such a help to my career to have a name that people could pronounce.”
Others switch to anglicised versions. The actor Kal Penn, from the Harold and Kumar films, was born Kalpen Modi, but put Kal Penn on his résumé “almost as a joke to prove friends wrong, and half as an attempt to see if what I was told would work [that anglicised names appeal more to a white-dominated industry]”. He said he saw his audition callbacks increase by 50% as a result of the switch. “I was amazed,” he said. “It showed me that there really is such an amount of racism – not just overt, but subconscious as well.”
But I will never change my name. For one thing, there’s just too much history attached to it. Xaymaca means “land of wood and water” and it was the name given to modern-day Jamaica by the Taino people, the early inhabitants of the island. It became Jamaica (juh-may-kuh) as a result of mispronunciation by Spanish colonists, and further mispronunciation by their English counterparts.
It’s a history many people are unaware of, even Jamaicans, and it is often a conversation starter. I remember speaking to a colleague about it during a coffee break. A question as simple as: “What does your name mean?” sparked a discussion about colonialism, Haiti and family history. We’ve remained friendly ever since.
I can usually tell if I’ll get on with someone based on how they react to learning my name. A remark about how strange my name is probably won’t lead to a long and fruitful friendship. But a look of curiosity, followed by a question, is a sign that we could build a meaningful relationship. I’m already well disposed to you because you’ve taken an interest in understanding me, and you’re brave enough to learn something new.
Perhaps that’s why employers in the UK will call back an Olivia before they call back a Xaymaca. There’s an idea that they will fit in because of a mutual understanding of race, culture and meaning, even if the recruiter isn’t thinking about olive trees.
For me it’s about respect. People will learn your name when they respect you. Take a look at Ronaldinho, Beyoncé or Tchaikovsky. If I changed my name just to make it easier for strangers to pronounce, I’d lose my sense of self-respect.
My first name has the same number of letters as Charles and the same number of syllables as Benjamin. It’s not overly difficult, only unfamiliar. My names are not mere letters on a job application, but markers of my identity, an identity that I’m proud of. We should all take pride in our names.
Before my grandfather’s journey to the United Kingdom, my great-grandfather said a prayer: “The name Awoyungbo shall be heard in London.” How could I let him down?
By displaying and pronouncing my name so publicly, I hope I am making things easier. Not for myself, but for other journalists entering the industry. Or at least for the next generation of substitute teachers.
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Xaymaca Awoyungbo is a freelance football writer and film director
