My full name is Sydney Hana Haupt. I was born in Los Angeles, California, to a Japanese American mother and an Irish American father.
With a name like Sydney Haupt, I never had to think very hard about my background or what I “was.” Born and raised a white community and carrying a white-passing name, teachers could always pronounce each syllable of my name flawlessly. Middle names were rarely, if ever, mentioned, and, even if they were, I had no idea that “Hana” might signify some sort of cultural background. I started going by “Syd” in first grade, which even further simplified the process.
However, this feeling grew more complex with age. In high school, I finally started to acknowledge that I carried a visible sort of “Asianness” that I had previously overlooked. In some ways, this was the first time I felt othered and different from fellow students at my school. I watched teachers hesitate for a second before calling my name during the first day of class, and I started to wonder if it was because they were expecting a different name based on my appearance. Maybe these instructors could not believe I was mixed, could not understand that I was white, could not fathom that my name might be something like “Sydney.”
I noticed people would ask about it—“How did your parents pick that name?” While always positioned as a simple inquiry, the phrase started to feel malicious to me. Why did it matter? Did they have an underlying intention for asking? Some sort of belief that I held the name fictitiously?
I became defensive.
“It was my grandfather’s name,” I would say. Or, alternatively: “It’s a family name. I’m the fourth Sydney in four generations.”
While this was technically true, it always felt gross that I had to justify my name at all. And, in the end, it was almost as if nothing would satisfy them. Beyond that, I was leaving out the important detail that Hana was also a family name, carried by my great-grandmother who made the courageous decision to immigrate to America. Without her, there would be no Abe family lineage in the United States.
I should have wanted to honor her. I should have wanted to call attention to her in whatever way possible. Instead, I lived in fear of being further classified as Other. I did my best not to mention my middle name, and, if I did, it was quickly mentioned only to clarify that it was pronounced differently than Hannah.
In the years since high school, I have grown a new appreciation for my name, although for complex reasons. For one thing, my first and last name are gender neutral. Although you can never truly be sure who is getting advantages these days, and for what reason, I sometimes feel that my name is taken more seriously when it is perceived to be male—whether it be on email chains, my resume, or attached to my portfolio. For another, my white-passing first and last name, which suggest some German and vaguely European ancestry, protect me from many racially-motivated biases. In an age where Asian Americans are sometimes perceived in a negative light, I feel that my name may have helped me move up a few ladders.
This is not to say that this structural issue is a good thing, or that I am happy that it exists—merely that my name has protected me from situations where I may be victimized. It’s funny how something that you grow up disliking can end up being a great tool for you in the end.
However, this experience has come with its own consequences: a perpetual feeling of disconnect and Otherness from the Asian community. When Asian American individuals match my first and last name to my face, they automatically know that I am hapa (mixed race), which comes with its own mixed set of emotions. Some people greet me with warmth and kindness, accepting me into the Asian American community as their equals. For others, I may have to spend time “proving” that I am “Asian enough” to belong amongst them, a notion that I find completely absurd and abstract, especially during a time when our sense of “Asian America” is evolving at a fast rate. And, for many, I will never truly be quite the same kind of “Asian American” as them, purely because my name marks me as different.
It is quite interesting, the power of a name. On one hand, I feel that it has advantaged me at some points in my life to carry a white-passing, gender neutral first and last name, which can protect me from moments of discrimination. On the other hand, these very names are what mark me as Other within the Asian American community, which brings its own complex set of issues with it. I am sure that, as my life goes on, I will hold other unique experiences and perspectives, purely due to my name.
Our names hold power, but we do not have to give them power over us. In the time since these realizations, I have found communities that accept me no matter what my name is. Whether it be through meeting other hapa Japanese Americans (largely through UC Santa Barbara’s Nikkei Student Union), or finding friends who are equally passionate about keeping Japanese American culture alive (which has been achieved through Kizuna’s Nikkei Community Internship Cohort), I have learned that my name only has as much power as I give it. My name does not define me, but rather empowers me to tell my story. And isn’t that what life is about?
© 2024 Sydney Haupt
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