What's in a Name?

In recognition of AANHPI Heritage Month

For much of my childhood, I pronounced my name differently depending on where I was.

Officially, my first name is Khanh-Tran, though, like my sisters, I go by the second part of my name. My sisters are Khanh-Van and Khanh-Ngan, which honestly created enough confusion growing up that even my parents mixed us up regularly. In my family, “Van,” “Ngan,” and “Tran” are pronounced closer to “Vung,” “Ngung,” and “Jung,” so all three names rhymed very closely. My mom would sometimes yell all three names in frustration without ever really clarifying which one of us she wanted.

As the youngest, my sisters occasionally took advantage of this. Whenever my mom started yelling names upstairs, they would look at me and tell me to go see who she wanted. I’d run downstairs, only to immediately get yelled at because, apparently, she had meant one of them instead. To be honest, I don’t think my mom always knew who she actually wanted once all three names started coming out.

There were moments growing up where I quietly cursed my parents for giving three daughters rhyming names. I remember asking them about it once and basically getting a shrug in response.

To be fair, my parents did put a lot of thought into our names. “Van” on its own means cloud, but “Khanh-Van” more closely translates to something like silver cloud or silver lining. “Ngan” means bell, with “Khanh-Ngan” becoming silver bell. “Tran” means pearl, though adding “Khanh” shifts the meaning closer to precious treasure.

That is admittedly a lot of expectation to place on your youngest daughter. Especially considering my parents openly admitted they were hoping for a boy by the time I came along. And honestly, I am not entirely convinced I lived up to the “precious treasure” meaning of my name any of the time.

It did get easier once my sisters went off to college since they are five and six years older than me. At that point, even if my mom called me by the wrong name, I usually knew she probably meant me. I think.

Growing up, “Tran” was pronounced one way in my household and another way at school.

In Vietnamese, the way my family says it sounds closer to “Jung.” But somewhere along the way, I learned it was easier for others if I changed it.

I still remember being in kindergarten when someone pronounced my name as “Tron.” It stuck. From kindergarten through eighth grade, that became my name at school.

At the time, I didn’t think much about it. I attended a small private school where most students were white. We had very little racial diversity, and without realizing it, I learned quickly what helped people feel comfortable and what made me stand out. Changing the pronunciation of my name felt easier than correcting people—easier than explaining myself or constantly reminding others that I was different.

By the time I entered high school, something shifted. I was attending a larger public school with students from different backgrounds, and for the first time, I decided I wanted to pronounce my name the way my family did—the way it was meant to be said.

And something unexpected happened: most people simply accepted it.

Some teachers struggled with pronunciation, especially substitute teachers seeing my full first name for the first time, but what stayed with me most was how other students responded. Before I could even say anything, classmates would groan, correct them for me, and move on. They protected my name before I learned how to protect it myself.

As an adult, I still navigate complicated feelings around my name and identity. Sometimes people tell me I pronounce my own name differently than another Vietnamese person they know, almost as though they are trying to prove I am saying my own name incorrectly. Sometimes I find myself comforting others when they mispronounce it, as though my preference—or the way I grew up saying my own name—might somehow inconvenience them.

For a long time, I carried the feeling that having a “foreign” name was something I needed to soften or adapt to fit in. I wanted to feel American without constantly being reminded that others saw me differently first.

But identity is complicated when you grow up balancing cultures. Too American in some spaces. Too Asian in others. Always adjusting. Always translating parts of yourself depending on the room.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized these experiences shaped more than just how I introduced myself. They shaped how I think about belonging altogether.

I often think about how many systems are built around what is considered familiar, standard, or easy for the majority. Most of the time, that may not be intentional. But when you grow up constantly adjusting your name, explaining your identity, or trying to make others comfortable, you begin noticing the spaces where people were never fully considered in the design to begin with.

Even now, I sometimes notice inconsistencies in how my name appears across systems and records. At this point, I honestly do not know whether the issue was the form, the system, translation, or simply that no one stopped to ask questions when my name was first documented.

It sounds small, but experiences like that stay with you. They quietly shape how you see yourself and how you move through the world.

That perspective has shaped how I approach my work today. Representation and diversity matter not simply because they are visible, but because they help organizations recognize gaps in understanding and better connect with the people and communities they serve.

Working in healthcare has only reinforced that belief for me. Patients, employees, and communities all carry identities, experiences, cultures, and stories that shape how they move through the world. Feeling seen and respected often starts in small moments—including something as simple, and as meaningful, as a person’s name.

Tran Nguyen

Manager, Digital Media Channels