You’re not pronouncing my name right. And that’s okay.

My name is Akshaya Natarajan. Before it was ever Akshaya, it was அக்ஷயா (or ‎அக்சயா, if you happen to be Muthuvel Karunanidhi), written in a language that was spoken over a thousand years before the inception of English. Like the holy Akshayapatra in the Mahabharata, a vessel with a neverending supply of food gifted to Draupadi and the Pandavas, my name has proved to be everlasting across the vast history of India through its many rich languages.

“Awk-SHY-yah,” however, is relatively new.

If you aren’t a family member, or otherwise someone that’s familiar with an Indian language, there’s a good chance you’re pronouncing my name wrong. And that’s totally fine — I mean, I was the one that told you to do that.

“But why did you introduce yourself to me by mispronouncing your name? I want to say it the right way! Your name is ethnic and beautiful! I mean, who says their own name wrong?”

I mean, it’s not like I didn’t try. But almost every time I’ve tried introducing myself with the correct pronunciation of my name, the person will inevitably respond with “AK-shi-ya? Am I saying that right?”

So when I was in middle school, I decided that the back-and-forth of “no, it’s more like…” and “how about now?” was a well-meaning yet futile situation, and ultimately a waste of time and effort. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault — I mean, unless you’ve grown up speaking an Indic language, pronouncing traditionally Indian names like Akshaya don’t come naturally. It’s hard to explain, but the way that English is spoken places emphasis on syllables different than in most Indian languages. (Then again, this is coming from someone with absolutely no background in linguistics, so don’t take my word for it.)

Now, I introduce myself with “Hi, my name is Awk-SHY-yah Na-ta-RAH-jan, nice to meet you,” and have effectively canonized this mispronunciation of my name as a part of my identity. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not always an end to the debacle of my name: I often have to go through multiple reiterations before a stranger will even get that right. At times, people have given up on that and resigned me to a nickname of their own volition. If you’ve ever seen my list of nicknames, “Shay” was the brainchild of a sunburnt counselor at a windsurfing camp I attended for a week in middle school. What a charmer.

My relationship with my name hasn’t always been this open. If you grew up with me, you probably know about my “angsty tween Fall Out Boy/All Time Low/Panic! At the Disco” phase, or my “anime/manga wannabe weeaboo” phase, or my infamous 4-month “why won’t she stop listening to Skrillex” phase. (If you’re still friends with me after all of that, I am eternally grateful).

What you might not know about, however, is the “I wish I never had this stupid name” phase, which sadly lasted for well over a decade.

See, I’ve known I was different ever since I was about six years old. And no, I don’t mean “different” like “piano prodigy” or “math genius” or “Matilda-level god-tier psychic ability” different (but man, I wish that last one were true).

I mean different. I looked different. I spoke different. I acted different. I ate different. I dressed different. My name was different.

I’ve had this dark brown skin ever since I was a grubby little girl that always played outside in the sun too long. When I was a young girl, I was raised by my parents and grandparents who spoke Tamil around the house. Going to elementary school and getting placed in an ELD class made me realize for the first time in my life that I had an Indian accent, and that my teachers thought I didn’t know how to speak English. Elementary school also taught me that Ross was out and Limited Too was in, that wearing a kurta top to school made me look like a foreigner (which was “super uncool”), that Lunchables were inherently superior to the chapathi and channa masala that Amma made for me every day.

And Akshaya? Forget about it. I mean, we speak English in America — why didn’t your parents pick an American name for you when you came here, like Rachel Wang’s parents in Ms. McKenzie’s class?

I would sometimes spend hours sitting, brooding, furiously making lists and crumpling them up. Elementary school saw the “I want an American name” phase (in case you’re wondering, “Amelia” and “Angela” were my top choices). I spent my middle school years cursing my parents, wondering why they couldn’t have picked a shorter and prettier and simpler and easier Indian name like Priya or Rani or Meena. High school was the era of nicknames. Most of them were obviously jokes made up by my friends, like Awkshady or Awky or Milk Chocolate (thanks for that one, JSA), but on my own I would think of what it would be like to start college with a new and cute nickname. I mean, wasn’t it unprofessional for people to mispronounce my name anyways? Maybe it was time to create a new name and new identity; what better place to do that than college?

But the first day of college came and went, and so did my yearning for a new name. I never was able to find a nickname that I liked or felt suited me enough to warrant changing it. So “Ak-SHY-ya” it was, and continues to be to this day.

Don’t get me wrong: I love being Akshaya. The pleasant surprise of meeting a fellow South Asian person and introducing myself with the correct pronunciation of name always makes my day; being home and hearing my mother yell “Aksha-YAAAA” from the other room never fails to fill me with warm and familiar love (read: undying fear). I take great pride in my name, and I could never imagine seeing anything else on my birth certificate or Facebook profile or drivers license (although I could definitely imagine seeing a better picture on it).

Being in a university as diverse and accepting as the one I’m blessed to go to, those around me (and myself definitely included) are proudly reclaiming our cultural identity, often after years of growing up pretending to be someone else. Many of my friends — and perhaps you too — share similar struggles with our names. Some have chosen to forgo nicknames and now introduce themselves with their full names, correct pronunciation and all — and more power to them.

As for me, however, I’ve come to realize that although I am and will always be the right pronunciation of my name, the “Americanized” one that I introduce myself with is just as much a part of my identity. Just like the Akshayapatra of Hindu mythological lore, my name has remained everlasting through every single insecurity I’ve ever had about who I am. Like so many others, my name is both a marker of my cultural history and the first statement I make about the person I am today — and nothing can change that about me.

If the way I introduce myself to you isn’t with the traditional pronunciation of my name, that’s okay. It’s still correct — correct to me, anyways.

So allow me to reintroduce myself: my name is HOV, H to the — wait, that’s not right…

Hi, my name’s Akshaya. Nice to meet you.