In the fourth grade, reading logs were a weekly homework assignment. Every Monday morning started with an announcement from my teacher asking us to write our names on the top of the sheet. Then, she would walk around the room and collect them. There must have been something peculiar in the air one morning when I decided to write my story character’s name instead of my own.
A week later, my teacher returns the logs by calling names. She calls out loud, the chairs scrapes against the floor, and footsteps of name bearer shuffles to her desk. Then, she reads, “Cassandra.” I was almost right out the door to the bathroom, and then a horrible silence falls on the room. My teacher thinks again about that name. Watching her brows furrow, I could see a huge thought bubble cast over her head. There was no such Cassandra in her class. I freeze, completely petrified. She calls again, “Who is Cassandra?” And then once more, “Whoever wrote Cassandra, please come here now. I could go through everybody and find out who you are, but let’s not go through all that trouble, shall we?” Before I let her confusion fully transform into impatience, my arm raised into the air.
Instead of feeling embarrassed from what nerve I had back in the day, I began to wonder about why I ever thought about changing my name. As a kid, I thought the Amelia’s, Hermione’s, and Phoebe’s were cooler. Amelia (Bedelia) is funny, even though she has a large, helpless literacy gap. Hermione has magical superpowers, and Phoebe knows science! And here I am – Kimberly, rarely the name of any protagonist. In fact, the name’s popularity has been on a steep decline since 1967. But after my fourth grade reading log incident, I never tried to change my name again. I only managed to toy with nicknames. Overtime, I came to associate with Kim, still disregarding much of Kimberly. This nickname is the one and only name my family uses because it’s too long for my non-English-speaking grandparents.
Until one day, I asked my parents why they named me Kimberly. I expected a long, intricate answer from my mom, given that she has great reasons for every decision she makes. But all it is was because it sounded like kum-bo-lor, which means “precious” in Cantonese colloquialism. I liked that explanation.
This memory was long untouched until a night in medical school when I was lying awake. It must have been triggered by the numerous times I use my full name to introduce myself to new people and patients. I tossed and turned that night, thinking not about why I tried to change my name before but how I have gotten to where I am now. I think about how I am medical student, a friend to some of the best people I know in my life, a sister to my brother, a part of my family, and still a member of my undergrad community. And I ruminate about what I want to achieve, how I want to contribute to others, and who I want to share these moments with.
My name has come a long way from its origin and my elementary school shenanigans. I’m realizing my name is merely, but importantly, a way of building connections with new people and discovering myself by cherishing my roots. As I continue with medical school, eventually get my MD, visit different corners of the world in my spare time, pick up new books, and continue to write, my self and connections will change and grow endlessly.