Ella Zu ARTS Blog

My name isn’t Jessica.
Unlike others, I don’t like my name.
Moments after I make my way into the blackbox, the instructor arranges for me to sit next to the people that looked like me.
For a second I thought that I was going to sit where everyone else sat.
Instead, she asks for my name.
“Zu-Jing-Yao,” I say.
She tries to pronounce it as if saying a tongue twister. She repeats it several times, asking me if she had “said it correctly.”
“Jing-Yao,” I explain.
She stretches her cheeks to make the “jing” sound exaggerated.
“Jing-Yung?”
“No, Jing-Yao.” I look around me to see half of the students mouthing my name, too.
“Shu-Jang-Yang,” she repeats. She squints at me as if I am impenetrable.
Instead of correcting once more, I simply nod. She beams, thinking that she finally pronounced it the correct way.
“Okay, so, Jang-Yang, my name is Mrs. Jones,” she continues lingeringly, as if I do not understand English.
“Oh, no, I can speak English,” I say, but quickly regret it. Now she will try to solve me like a math question again.
“Oh,” she says, quite surprised. “Do you have an English name?”
I stare at her, blank-faced. “No. Just… just Zu-Jing-Yao.”
“A-ha!” She claps her hands together, beaming, as though she’s solved a murder mystery. “I knew it; I forgot the “Shu”! Alright, so, Shu-Jang–“
“Zu-Jing-Yao–“
“Zhu… zing–Yang…”
“Jessica,” I say loudly enough for everyone to hear.
She leans on her left foot, astonished. “Pardon?”
“Jessica is fine.”
Finally, the class resumes back to a peaceful lecture. I happen to make a few friends, though they call me Jessica.
The Chinese girls that I am placed with, I find myself glad to be joining Kristy and Stella.