SHOULD YOU CHANGE YOUR NAME IN CANADA?

By SHAGORIKA EASWAR with files from EMIL REM and SAM MUKHERJEE

Sudhir Talsania became Sam Talsania for ease of conducting business.

Vihar Joshi recalls people choosing not to learn how to pronounce his name.

Atul Tiwari asks us to imagine the number of ways his name could be mangled to torture a little boy. He would have settled for Bob in a heartbeat.

Shalini Konanur has clear memories of nobody ever pronouncing her father’s  name correctly. “But also, importantly, their focus was head down and get ahead. They navigated the situations with dignity.”

Grant’s Desi Achievers, all, they overcame the issues associated with names that are unfamiliar to mainstream Canada, each in their own way.

My earliest memory of how people struggle with names goes back even further. During his post-doctoral years at Imperial College in London, England, my father’s friends and colleagues combined the names of two trees they were familiar with, to get a handle on his name.

Ash plus oak equals Ashok.

Not exactly as it is pronounced, but close enough to pass muster!

There are so many such stories, of how we navigate life with the names we are blessed with (though I will confess to thinking of mine more as a burden when I was a child).

Our parents bestow names upon us that hold a special meaning for them, that best describe their hopes and aspirations for us.

But those very names can be cause for much angst in different lands, tongue-twisters for those we come across at school or work.

In fiction, too. Sergeant Surendranath Banerjee becomes Surrender-not in Abir Mukherjee’s critically acclaimed and popular books.

And in Ajay Chowdhury’s books, Detective Kamil Rahman is disparagingly referred to as Camel Ramen. Or DC Rahnaan (review on page 24).

So yes, there might be good reason to change one’s name.

During the nascent years of Desi News, we’d done a feature, Tom, Dick and Hariharan, on the names we call ourselves. It generated a lot of feedback.

The piece was not about whether one should or shouldn’t change one’s name. After all, there’s something to be said for simplifying things – I’m thinking of all the time I could have saved if I hadn’t had to enunciate my name slowly, clearly, and repeatedly!

But as we grow into our names, we become more aware of the love and the special meaning our names symbolise.

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In a world where many feel the pressure to adapt their names to fit into new environments, Emil Kassamali Salehmohamed Remtulla’s personal journey serves as a compelling testament to the significance of preserving one’s unique identity.

IN EMIL’S WORDS

Is your name unusual or hard to pronounce? Resist the urge to change it. Here’s why.

Originally from Tanzania, I was given the name Emil Kassamali Salehmohamed Remtulla at birth. When I emigrated to Canada in my 20s, I shortened my last name to conform.

Although this change made my name easier for people to pronounce, in shortening it, I lost an important part of my identity and heritage. In the small Muslim town where I was born, everyone in my community could identify who my family was because my middle names were those of my father and grandfather. Remtulla, an Arabic name, means Grace of God (Rhemet-Allah). Yet the shortened version evokes little more than the acronym REM (Rapid Eye Movement).

My first name, Emil, was given to me to remember a German who had saved my father from drowning when he was a child. No one knew how to pronounce the name. Instead, they called me Milo from Gerber’s powdered baby formula, and my resemblance to the face displayed on its tins (but pronounced it Meelo instead of Mylo).  Luckily, I decided to keep the name Emil.

My father also changed his name – not once, but twice. At birth he was called Kassamali Salehmohamed Remtulla, in accordance with tradition. During his mischievous school days, when he became a cricket hero within the community, he was nicknamed Kassare (KASsamali SAlehmohamed REmtulla), which became his name from then on.

Eventually he moved to Calgary and changed his beloved Kassare to Remy. To honour him, I purchased the license plate KASSARE. Even in Calgary, Canada – a universe away from Africa – elderly East Indians from Tanzania would stop me and ask after my car’s namesake.

Looking back, I wish we had resisted the urge to adapt and westernize by changing and shortening our given names. So much history, culture, tradition and identity is packed into each of their syllables. A Tanzanian village. Ismaili Muslim customs and beliefs. A near-fatal childhood accident. And the Grace of God.

To all those considering a name change, I suggest:

Consider why your name was chosen for you in the first place. 

Names are not random selections. They often carry the weight of generations of tradition, family history, and cultural pride. They can represent stories of perseverance, love, hardships overcome, and more. Look for instance at the story of my first name, Emil, having been given to me to honour a German man who had saved my father from drowning as a child. Every time someone calls me by my name, I am reminded of this heroic act. Changing my name would be like erasing a chapter from my family’s history book.

If your name has a story with meaning to you, think about what would you lose by taking that away.

What history and traditions – family or cultural – does your name reflect? 

In certain cultures, names are handed down through generations, acting as a link to ancestors and a bridge to the future. They can signify certain rites of passage, familial roles, or historic events. My original last name, Remtullah, encapsulated a beautiful message – the Grace of God. Altering it changed not just how it sounded, but also the deep-rooted spiritual and cultural significance it held.

How would you feel about removing any such symbolism that your name carries?

Ask yourself what, aside from cultural blending, you stand gain from changing your name?

Will you find it easier to integrate socially? Will you encounter fewer mispronunciations when speaking with strangers? Or is there something else? Sometimes, the allure of fitting in can make the decision seem straightforward. But what is the true cost? When I emigrated, I felt the pressure to “blend in”, to make things easier for others at the expense of my own identity. It’s essential to evaluate whether the perceived benefits of a name change truly outweigh the loss of the unique essence and stories your original name holds.

Think about the rich experiences and exchanges that sharing your name with strangers can bring.

Names have the power to start conversations and forge connections. Sharing a unique or culturally significant name often prompts questions, allowing you to share stories, educate others, and deepen mutual understanding. In my case, my license plate, KASSARE, sparked curiosity, allowing me to reminisce about my father’s legacy and connect with others from Tanzania, even in a distant land like Canada. Our names can be bridges that connect diverse cultures, fostering respect and understanding.

Embracing our authentic names can be a powerful statement, not only for our sense of identity but also for future generations who will carry these names and the rich histories they encompass. It’s not just about personal pride; it’s about preserving and cherishing the beautiful tapestry of cultures that make up our global community – and being authentic ourselves.

Today, I’m proud to say that my younger son has switched back to the last name Remtulla. And fortunately, more people now, including immigrants, are sticking to their original names than when I first came to North America decades ago. People who might struggle to pronounce an unfamiliar name also have become more open to learning how.

Still, there’s a lot of progress yet to be made. Be part of it!

About Emil Rem: Emil Rem is a creative nonfiction writer, an eccentric accountant and an advocate for overcoming the odds.

An Ismaili Muslim originally from Tanzania, he has faced – and overcome – daunting circumstances all his life, from being raised in foster care in England to emigrating to Canada as a young adult.

He is the author of Heart of New York and Chasing Aphrodite and has more books in the works.

His mission in sharing his stories is to instill hope and inspire people to choose action, resilience, hope and determination for overcoming even the tallest of odds, undaunted.

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On the other hand... When I first connected with Sam Mukherjee years ago, I assumed Sam was short for Samaresh. Nope. It is Subhankar and was shortened to Sam by his friends in Australia.

I AM SAM

“All names are beautiful. They carry with them memories of everyone who has ever called upon them.” This is a line from my upcoming literary work, Where the Nights are Long, and I have taken the liberty to quote myself.

When a given name morphs into a new one, a slow death of the original is inevitable. I have been lucky. My given name, Subhankar, and a hypocorism (pet name), Subham have survived.

I had grown used to name distortions since I left Kolkata (then Calcutta) to live in Mumbai and New Delhi in India. In Kolkata, my names were pronounced the Bengali way, Shubhongkor and Shubhom. Outside of Bengal the names were pronounced, Shubhankar and Shubham.

Later, when I began to write for an English daily in India, Subhankar Mukherjee was shortened to sumujee for ease of electronic communication, and I acquired the nickname, Sumujee. Soon after, Sumujee became a login ID for my emails.

Then, I moved to Australia. In the beginning, classmates called me Subhankar, then gave up. Sumujee was easier for them, and I was already used to it.

As a student in Melbourne, I worked at an international student residence under the Department of Education. There, the chef, Craig Hansen (who became a close friend) also addressed me as Sumujee. He had given up trying to pronounce Subhankar but one day, decided to try Subham. After multiple attempts, he arrived at Sam. He loved it. My co-workers loved it. I liked it too.

By then, explanation fatigue had set in, and I began using Sam. And soon, Sam Mukherjee became my pen name.

My father had named my sister.

When I was born, it was my mother’s turn. She was a sociologist and a teacher of English and taught in one of the largest schools in the world; and one of her favourite students at the time was Subhankar (now a renowned physician). The boy’s honesty, resilience, and humility appealed to her more than his academic brilliance. Thus, the naming, or rather, christening.  

However, at home, I dealt with no pressure to be a certain way. I had the privilege of growing up free to be me.

Years have passed. Now, I am known as Author Sam Mukherjee. Or just Sam.

Has the morphing augmented my credibility?

I don’t know. But I am better off than the Priyanka who turned into Bianca, the Nabendu-Dibya who turned into Nyabadoo-Dyabadoo, and the Chittabrata who was called Chitter-Bitter, all without their consent.

Some begrudgingly accept their new names. They feel like helpless playthings in the hands of malevolent designators. But I like Sam. I like Sam Mukherjee. And I feel the way we are staunch pilgrims, keeping faith and believing that our tomorrows will be better, our new names must also be given a chance, a chance that they truly deserve. I have become a part of mine and I support it.

About Sam Mukherjee: Sam Mukherjee is the published author of three novels, Chopped Green Chillies in Vanilla Ice Cream, In the Name of Love, and Perfect Tangerine. As he awaits the release of his fourth, The Citizen Soldier, he pens legal briefs for a criminal law firm in the UK. Sam has written over 1500 feature articles, radio shows, and speeches for a Canadian senator.

He has a Higher Education Teaching Certificate from Harvard University’s Derek Bok Center for Teaching and Learning and has lectured in multiple institutions of excellence across four continents.

He has an M.A. in History from Jadavpur University in India, a diploma in Mass Communication from Holmesglen Institute in Melbourne, Australia, and a diploma in Writing for Film, TV and Interactive Media from Vancouver Film School on a full-time writing scholarship.