Am I Cuong or Coo?

The following essay was written for an English class when I was an eighteen year old as a senior in Roseville Area High School in Minnesota. The piece should give you insight into the complexity of my racial identity through the scope of my given name and nickname.

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Dissonance Paper: A personal look into the complex life of an Asian American of the 90s
By Cuong Pham

CIS Freshmen Writing Hour 1
Mr. Vining
19 February 1998

Ding! Ding! Ding! Immediately, the teacher started class and introduced himself. He pushed some of his papers around on his desk and picked up the attendance sheet. Meanwhile, I reacquainted myself with the friends that I did not see over the summer. Lying back in my desk, I listened to my new teacher call off the wide array of American names in alphabetical order.

"Peter Erickson?", asked the educator.
"What's Up?", Pete responded gleefully.
"Is Sean McGrath around?", the teacher continued on.
"Howdy.", Sean answered in his deep resonant voice.

Like the beginnings of every school year, my instructor used the list of names to learn the names and faces of the students. I continued to wait for my turn as I fidgeted with my pencil.

"Is Nicholas Nantell here?", the teacher asked politely.
"What?", Nick said in his usual dazed state.

A bright, widening smile gradually spread across my face. As usual, I knew what to expect. I had been through this in every school year, every new classroom, and every single time I wanted this ordeal to end as quickly as possible. My difficult birth name has always given me trouble, and this sometimes frustrated me.

The teacher stared at the list for a couple of seconds and then looked back up with perplexed eyes at his restless students. Finally he placed forth, "Um, is, uh, I don't want to mess up this name, but is it Ku-ong P-ham? Yeah, is Ku-ong P-ham in the house?"

I raised my hand reluctantly with a weak laugh, and quickly explained, "Just call me Coo and don't ask me why." As I went on with my grin, I thought this response had completed the conversation. I had hoped that the teacher would go on to drill another student.

However, the teacher came back with the confused answer, "You mean, Kong. Right?"
With some annoyance, I repeated, "It's Coo. It rhymes with a cow's moo or with a ballerina's tutu but instead it begins with a big hard C." Now that should cover the bases, I thought to myself.

Without warning, the teacher goes on, "Oh, Coo. I'm sorry. How do you spell Coo?"
Wow, I thought to myself, I had never wondered about the spelling of my nickname before or had anyone ever asked me such a question. Though people called me, Coo, I had always spelt it as it should be, C-U-O-N-G. I rambled out, "I guess you can spell it as C-u-o, C-o-o, K-u, or maybe C-o-u-p."

But the interrogation continued, "Come on, tell me how you really say it." My peers instantly turned their heads toward me, awaiting for the exciting pronunciation.

As always, I caved in and eloquently said, "Cuong Quoc Pham."
Then, a friend joyfully said, "G Qoc Pham. It sounds like a G."
I gave up and answered back, "You say it just like my mom. It's perfect."

Though this is a fictional grouping of past situations, my name since childhood in America presented similar difficulties. My parents chose my relatively prevalent Vietnamese name for its beauty. The name, Cuong, is plastered all over restaurant and store names across Vietnam. The University of Minnesota last year listed five, Cuong Phams in their phone directory. Still, its commonality in my language does not erase its inherent exotic nature in America. In my case, a flowing, one-syllabic word in Vietnamese became an awkward, tongue wrenching word in English. Over the years, I have concealed my real name with the simplicity of my nickname, Coo.

Nevertheless, I do not recall how I received such a name. I have no clue what people called me in Kindergarten, but I did not care. I, still new to the American culture, did not worry about such problems. Somehow, in first grade, my teacher, Mrs. Welke tore off the last two letters of my first name and molded a new future for me. Now, Coo does not sound like my original name. Coo does not mean anything. Coo sounds like a bird call, Coo, Coo, Coo. Actually, Coo, in Vietnamese with a certain spelling, has almost the same meaning as the nickname of Richard in America (wink, wink). On other hand, its simplicity pleased me as child and it sounded "coo" as they say. At that age, I came attached to the name because it helped knock done the language barrier between myself and my classmates. I no longer had to be self-conscious about my name. I have never looked back since then, and today, my nickname has grown into my personality.

I am amused when new people greet me with "Haiku, that's a Japanese poem." (with a laugh as if I had never heard that one before), or when my friends delightfully yell across the room "It's Coo Pham from Vietnam.", or when Steve Gray walks down the hall, spots me, acknowledges me with a smirk, and bellows out," COOOO PHAAM ." I may dislike the difficulty my given name causes with introductions of myself. I still get annoyed with the constant misspellings.

However, how can I hate my name; a name that represents myself, my past, and my country. It is the core of my being. It is the first word I heard when I was born, the first word I ever learned, and the first word that I believed in and understood. At home, my family and my Vietnamese friends have always called by my rightful name. I would regret the day when I no longer hear my original name from my family or never hear its eloquence at all again. My parents named me Cuong Quoc Pham for more than its beauty. In my Vietnamese tongue, Pham means intellectually educated; Quoc stands for the state, for my country; Cuong symolizes the physically and mentally strong-willed. Coo may represent the opportunity, the liberty, and the American melting pot I have gained, but Cuong epitomizes the heritage, the strength, the Vietnamese within me. The purpose of my name is more than a method to distinguish myself from others; my name is what makes me the complex, strong-willed Asian American.