My Name Is Faisal, and I Don’t Know How It’s Pronounced

My name is Faisal, like “Hazel” with an “F”.

There is an anxiety that sparks before every introduction I make, a doubt that persists after any greeting I give. It makes me hate saying my name. I’m told it’s natural, that uncommon names always yield hesitation. The other person's reciprocity winds up in murmurs, because a mispronunciation will only make things awkward. I am henceforth branded within the frequencies of their familiarities, and, with those un-daring, even the dreaded "You". They say it’s all good intentions, and I’m making a big deal out of nothing. Even you, who have experienced the same, may agree:

”This is trivial.”

”This can happen to foreigners in other countries too.”

”It’s just a name.”

What these rationales miss is that these deceitful omissions perpetuate a raw and lingering shame. Not shame through the same cracks of precise cruelty you may expect out of the romantic devils of history, but through a more manipulative subjection: a regulation of identity so deeply embedded in our communities that even we find its recognition absurd.

My name is Faisal, like “Hazel” with an “F”.

The years I traveled the world and repeated these words over and over again made me aware of this shame, which is not inherent in my own heart, but a real social fear come to light in being constantly reminded that I was unworthy of proper recognition. I left my home because I was not brave enough to survive the wrath of these reminders. I sought connection through dissociation, which only reinforced the isolation I felt from everyone, Americans and Indians alike.

I found the truth in empathy elsewhere. Our diaspora may be a diverse one, but the source of our displacement takes root in all our hearts as much as it does in our respective geographies. I quickly learned how easy it was to relate to Indians from any country, no matter our unique backgrounds. Our collective shame, implicit or otherwise, spoke louder than our Western-crafted monikers and accents. There was a universality to the dreadful assumptions people made about us, propped up by our shared insistence that these were necessary side effects of assimilation. It is ironic, I think, that I made this discovery by attempting to escape the consequences of that discovery in the first place.

This, I must add, is the true essence of why we travel: not simply for grand adventure but to realize that the intimate sufferings of others parallel our own. The complacency we inherit from our homes has the risk of stifling a sense of exploration into these revelations. We proceed to create illusions that hide these complexities. What you must understand is that the consequences of these illusions are dangerous, because from denial emerges resentment. Not an external resentment, for the success of oppressors is measured by how much we believe in the inevitability of our own suffering. No, this frustration disseminates in the confines of our families, particularly towards the parents we rage at for not embracing the values of a generation as foreign as the land they sacrificed everything to habituate.

This is not a call to forgive inter-generational traumas inflicted upon us. Instead, I urge you to re-evaluate the myths we already know to be false. To do this, we must abandon the pretenses surrounding us and attempt to be honest with the friends we avoid, the mothers we neglect, and the fathers we disregard. This communication should not be condemnation, but a joint effort to explore the complexities of our lives together.

I am told often that perhaps my most endearing trait is my appetite, not just for the foods of all kinds I delightfully consume, but for the people of all types I love listening to. I feel most alive when I am fortunate enough to hear the childhood memories of the nostalgic elder or the intimate desires of the aspiring student. How easy it should be, then, for me to extend this passion to the friends and family closest to me! And yet, like with many of you, there is a wall, with bricks laid bare by my gradual detachments. I learned that, no matter the insights drawn from deserts and faraway lands, the only way to dismantle such a wall is by, first, recognizing its existence (the crux of these writings), and second, chipping away at it through reconciliation (the responsibility we must inherit).

My name is Faisal, like “Hazel” with an “F”.

Such a lazy self-betrayal this is. How can I hope to fight the injustices inflicting the shame I describe prior if I can’t even fight for my own name? These struggles, despite what the dilution of society may have us believe, are one and the same. Revolutions begin with the actualization of individuality, and that itself starts when you insist on being recognized properly. Otherwise, you forget what that correct pronunciation is, and subsequently, you forget who you are as a whole. I challenge you to demand the impossible with me, because the benefits of such an action can extend beyond us. The scope of impact may as well be six people in the same room, but those six are enough when they are inspired to become unforgivably themselves.

If nothing else, I once again emphasize the interconnectedness of our tendencies and temptations in perpetuating our exclusion. I have no desire to create adversaries of anyone. Instead, I rely on empowering you to accept that there exist implicit prejudices that prevent us from being our best selves. They may be born of ignorance (for I truly believe in the genuineness of most people) but their consequence remains the same. And we, despite our own pain at the brunt of these injustices, are complicit if we do not redeem ourselves of their influence. Else the ones who are far more disadvantaged will continue to suffer while we benefit from the more material privileges of our entrapment.

My name is Faisal.

It’s alright if you don’t know how to pronounce it right away. It’s okay to get it wrong the first time, or even the second. I welcome you to simply ask. There is no pompousness, no awkwardness, and no offense taken in the attempt to humanize one another. It is neglect that creates distance. Adherence to a misguided purity of established norms only encourages belligerent homogeneity.

To successfully subvert this, we must live, and live irrepressibly. It is in this pursuit of life and love that we realize the tragedy of our fractured souls. When we hold ourselves back from hugging our loved ones, become embarrassed at the rowdiness of our families, or undermine our own names, we must comprehend not the incompatibility of our Indian identities in a Western world, but the intolerance of that world in accommodating the beauty of the heterogenous.

And what a terribly dull world it would be if not so.

- Faisal

*No essay will be published next week (Dec 26). Happy holidays!