How I Made My Name in America

I arrived in America with a name no one could pronounce.

It was late August, the kind where the East Coast air still clings to the skin like it’s trying to keep summer alive. I was 19, clutching my father's old leather suitcase and my mother’s blessing in my chest like a shield. I didn’t speak much, partly because I was shy, partly because I was still learning how to string English together in real-life conversations, not just school exercises.

My name was Arqam. Pronounced "Ar-qaam," from deep in the throat, with the weight of generations folded into its syllables. In my country, it meant “the penman” — a title of knowledge, of scholars. Here, it sounded foreign, hard, and to many, intimidating.

In my first week of college in Pennsylvania, I watched teachers glance at the roll call, hesitate, and then say, "Um...A…Ar-kam?"

I would raise my hand, smile politely, and say, “Yes, here.”

But inside, every mispronunciation felt like an erasure.

The struggle wasn’t just about pronunciation.

It was about presence.

In a country built on diversity, I still felt like a shadow among people who had learned early how to stand tall, how to speak without apology, how to joke in cultural shorthand I couldn’t follow. My accent betrayed me. My clothes felt off. Even my silence felt foreign.

So I adapted.

I started introducing myself as "Qam." Just the last part of my name. It was easier for them, quicker, less awkward. People smiled more when they didn’t have to try too hard.

I learned to laugh on cue, to mimic slang, to edit my lunches in the cafeteria so the smell wouldn’t draw stares.

Bit by bit, I made myself smaller to fit in.

Sophomore year, I joined a poetry group on campus. I didn’t plan to read anything, just wanted to be around words that felt safe. One night, the organizer nudged me to sign up. "Come on," she said. "Everyone's got something."

I had a notebook full of lines I had never spoken aloud. That night, I read a piece called "Names," about my grandfather writing mine in calligraphy when I was born.

When I finished, the room was silent for a beat. Then came the applause.

Afterward, a girl named Jasmine came up and said, "I’ve never heard a name sound so sacred before. Thank you."

Something shifted in me.

I began using my full name again.

But identity isn't reclaimed in a single moment.

It’s a series of small rebellions.

Like correcting someone gently when they mispronounced it. Like speaking up in class even when my accent fluttered. Like joining student government and putting my name — my real name — on the campaign posters.

I lost elections. I was mocked online. I was told I was “too serious,” “too different,” “not American enough.”

But I didn’t stop.

Because with each act, I was building something.

A version of myself that didn’t shrink.

After college, I moved to New York City.

There, I saw every kind of person. Every color, every language. I met people with longer names, harder accents, and deeper stories. But they walked like they owned their space.

I started writing again. At night, after work, I would sit at my desk and pour out poems, essays, reflections on what it means to be named, to be seen, to be split between two worlds and still whole.

One piece got published in a small magazine. Then another. Eventually, I was invited to speak on a panel titled: "Belonging and Identity in America."

I almost said no.

But then I remembered the silence I used to live in.

And I went.

On stage, under warm lights, I told the story of my name.

Of how I had once broken it in half so others could be comfortable. Of how I put it back together because I deserved to be whole.

I spoke of my mother’s voice, soft but certain: "Never forget who you are."

I spoke of the teachers who tried, the strangers who didn’t, and the poets who helped me find my own rhythm.

I ended with this line:

“My name is Arqam. I used to say it quietly. Now I let it echo.”

The audience stood.

Not for fame. Not for performance. But for recognition.

They weren’t just clapping for me — they were clapping because they, too, had names, stories, struggles stitched into their skin.

And in my voice, maybe they heard their own.

Today, I’m a writer.

I sign my books with my full name.

I visit schools and tell students — especially the ones who look unsure in their skin — that they don’t have to shrink to belong. That their identity is not a burden, it’s a banner.

I still live in America.

But I don’t just live in it — I live as me.

Every day, I make my name again.

And every day, it grows stronger.