“My name is Akina.” When I introduce myself, it somehow feels important, like I am establishing my place in the world, and sharing with people my culture, language, and history.
A couple disclaimers: I am still in the process of the whole “identity” thing. My identity is like a map of stars, and each star represents a formative life experience. But I do not quickly make out pretty constellations; instead, I am looking at a vast, glittery, scattered mess.
Sometimes, after staring at it for long enough, I decipher shapes, and things click into place. But after some time, I lose it, I try to find it again, and I end up with a headache.
In the same way, writing about my name may be something I face difficulty with, as I must decipher what makes me “me” through the biggest, worldly thing that represents my being.
However, I will give this a try in an effort to understand and appreciate my name, as it has always remained undeterred throughout all of the questions, doubts, and vulnerabilities surrounding my identity.
When I say my name to people, it has always been “uh-KEE-nuh.” The first and last “a” becomes settled into an “uh” sound. The pronunciation in Japanese is “AH-ki-na,” with each vowel enunciated distinctly and each syllable emphasized in an up-down-up rhythm.
Once, a teacher asked me how to pronounce my name. I said that it doesn’t matter, because I was fine with both the “Americanized” way and the “correct” way. But he insisted which I prefer, because it is up to me to decide how I want to go by. I was never asked how I prefer my name to be pronounced, so this caught me off guard.
Through moments like this, I learned that the way my name shall be spoken in the world should not be forced to submit to the people and environment around it. I felt bad that I was simplifying my name, a name that my parents carefully crafted for me, to fit American tongues. Even though I know this, it is something I am still in the process of putting into practice.
Reason being, I like both pronunciations of my name, the Americanized way and the correct way. I feel like “me” in both representations. Recently, though, I have been mixing the two, so that when I say my name, I say something like, “uh-KEE-na,” with a distinction on the final “a” sound. It is a small alteration, but right now in my life, where I value both my Japanese self and American self, this pronunciation feels right.
I like the balance of my name. Not only regarding its blend of my Japanese and American identities, but the way it physically looks on print. Since I have no middle name, nicknames, or second names, it is simple. I enjoy this simplicity, as well as how my first and last name are both equal in letter count, five and five.
This essence of balance is reflected in its Japanese typography as well. My name is written as 愛妃奈. I like that each syllabic mora, “a,” “ki,” and “na,” has its own kanji dedicated to it, and that they can always live within its own square footage of paper or pixelated space. It’s like each syllable is precious enough to have its own identity and spotlight, and I like that fairness and equality.
The first character in my name is 愛. This is ai, and it means love. In my name, it represents the “a” sound. 愛 is a symbolic character that is often seen in merchandise and T-shirts, and I like how unbreakable and true this character remains through time.
The “ki” sound in my name is represented with the character, 妃. This is read as kisaki and it means princess. I also appreciate that it has the onna-hen, which is when the character 女, meaning “woman, female,” makes up the left of a kanji.
奈 is the characterization of the sound “na,” and usually marks femininity at the end of a name. Something about having this character mark the end of my name with a note of finality makes me feel content, like the act of crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s.
Growing up, I was uncomfortable with how feminine my name sounded. It was during an awkward preteen phase in my life when I rejected femininity because I thought being a tomboy was cooler and more socially accepted, and I had rolled my eyes at how girly my name was.
Now as an adult, I derive strength from my “girly” name, because I understand that being a woman means being resilient. I embrace my femininity because I owe myself that acknowledgement and respect that I otherwise may not receive in the real world.
If my identity is a map of stars, my name is something like the North Star. It is a constant, always important, and won’t ever go away. I admire that it unapologetically radiates ethnicity and femininity, and I am happy to be Akina.
© 2024 Akina Nishi
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