I Changed My Name

The first time I went to a Starbucks in the US, the cashier asked me what my name was. I said, “Phúc (IPA: /fʊwk͡p̚˧˦/).”

“I’m sorry, what?”
And I said, “Uhh, like… Phooook. Spelt P-h-u-c.” She wrote P-h-u-c onto the cup and gave me my receipt.

Two minutes later, my drink was finished and given to a barista. When he saw the name on the side of the cup, his face scrunched up, like he was nervous, like he didn’t want to shout a swear word in the middle of his own workplace. After a beat, he managed to squeeze out, “Ph- Ph- Phoook?”

“That’s mine, thanks,” I said, and I took my drink.

Despite this experience, when I went to an American boarding school in which few to none could even conceptualise the Vietnamese sound of “-úc (/ʊwk͡p̚˧˦/),” I didn’t change my name. I’d tested out a few easier-to-pronounce names before, but, somehow, they didn’t fit me. The thought of people calling me stuff like “Sergio” or “Aaron” just felt… wrong. Like they were referring to someone else.

So, I kept the name Phúc. But, for the last two-and-a-half years I’ve not been known as Phúc, I’ve been known as Phuc (/fʊk/)… or Phoop… or Phuck. I’ve been in clubs, I’ve participated in productions, I’ve built so many relationships at Milton as Phuc. As a result of these new experiences, my external personality has changed––the way I interact with people, the way I walk, the way I talk, has changed, however miniscule. All of these changes make me Phuc. Nowadays, when I introduce myself to people, I don’t say, “I’m Phúc.” I say, “I’m Phuc.”

I changed my name.

I didn’t really notice this change until I went to a Starbucks in Vietnam. The cashier asked me what my name was, and I almost said ‘Phuc.’ When the sound “Phúc” came out of my mouth, it felt awkward, out of place, almost… foreign.

Two minutes later, my drink was finished and given to a barista. When he saw the name on the side of the cup, he said immediately, “anh Phúc ạ?”

Again I hesitated, because it felt almost like he was calling me Sergio or Aaron, like he was referring to a mask I’d barely worn for two-and-a-half years. I answered, “Đây ạ, em cảm ơn,” and took my drink.

I realised later that the incident felt so uncomfortable because for two-and-a-half years, Phúc was mine. So few people could say it; so few people could touch it. Phúc existed only in my head, in my family, in my small group of friends. I guess it’d be like if your parents had a nickname for you, and then a random Starbucks employee shouted it at you. Memories are attached with nicknames like that. All the memories that I made before Milton, all the things I never shared with Milton were bottled up in Phúc, and having it shouted like that made me feel… exposed.

So, maybe that’s why I don’t mind Phuc or Phuuc or Phoop or Phuck. Maybe I don’t want you to be able to pronounce my name, because it’s stored with my vulnerabilities and my insecurities. Or maybe I just can’t be bothered to train people’s mouths to make sounds they literally cannot make because they grew up not speaking Vietnamese. I don’t know. Either way, I’ll not be teaching you how to pronounce my name. At least, not today.