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LIFESTYLE
CALL ME PING

After being James, Peter, and William, I decided to

stick with my Chinese name
Lots of word choices for names. Image: Reuters/Jason Lee

By Zheping HuangPublished February 14, 2017

During the recent Lunar New Year, Columbia University students with non-Western
names found their name plates ripped off from dormitory doors at several residential
halls. The vandalism, which especially targeted East Asian names, stressed out students
already alarmed over “the growing climate of xenophobia,” wrote a school official in an
email to Asian student groups.

Some students responded by posting a video on Facebook explaining the meaning of

their Chinese first names.
 A D V E RT I S E M E N T

Who is your Guardian

Angel ?
Your life will never
be the same.

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As the students explain, their parents ascribe a lot of meaning to their given names. One
of them, Juzhi, says his name means “to turn into a better person.” Xinran (欣然) explains
her name means “joy and happiness.” While such sentiments are captured in the strokes
of Chinese characters, they’re lost in Western languages.

This reminds me of a constant debate: Should Chinese people adopt English first names
when interacting with Westerners?

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The benefits of doing so are obvious. Going by a conventional English name—but not
weird names like “Candy,” “Promise” or “Devil“—makes everyone’s life easier. But my
experiences studying and working in English-speaking multicultural environments in the
past few years have made me realize that sticking to your Chinese name is better if you
want foreigners to know who you are—and if you want to feel good about yourself.
 A D V E RT I S E M E N T

Who is your Guardian

Angel ?
Your life will never
be the same.

Name games

I was William, then Peter, then James, and then William again—until I decided to just go
by Ping, the last character of my given name, when I left for Hong Kong to study for a
master’s two years ago.

Like many Chinese millennials, the Western names I used in my adolescent years in
Shanghai were chosen by my teachers, and used mostly in English classes. My
kindergarten teacher named me after Prince William because I was one of the cutest boys
in class (at least according to my mother’s account, which I’ve been unable to verify). In
primary school, my English teacher designated me Peter—a boring name used in many
English textbooks in China, along with Linda—without asking for my opinion.

Finally, in high school, I got the chance to choose my English name on my own.
Unfortunately I was caught off guard when a teacher began to ask for and record
everyone’s choices.

“Huang Zheping, what about you?” It was my turn. I hesitated for a few seconds and said
something I regretted immediately.

A D V E RT I S E M E N T

“Frodo,” I said, as I was reading The Lord of Rings books at the time. I heard snickers in
the classroom.

The nice young lady seemed not to be a Tolkien fan—she said Frodo sounded French and
asked for an alternative.

My mind went blank. I began to think about the names of my favorite NBA players. Kobe?
That’s even worse than Frodo. LeBron? James? Fine. Let me try James.
I had to stick with James for a little over two years. Though I didn’t have many
encounters with foreigners during that period, I still recall an exchange student from
Edinburgh, named Fiona, looking unconvinced when I introduced myself as “James
Huang.” Perhaps my introduction didn’t sound confident. If so, no wonder: I didn’t feel
like a James.

A D V E RT I S E M E N T

In college I switched back to William. That was my first English name, after all. I
introduced myself as William—more proudly this time—to foreign students and tutors. I
registered several social media accounts using the name. I even carved “William” onto
my iPod shuffle.

During this time I felt two identities emerge. I was Ping in my daily social circle. But I was
some other guy named William to my few foreign friends and to any strangers I met who
didn’t speak Chinese. Those who knew me as Ping would never know me as William—and
vice versa. That was when I started to doubt the need for an English name in the first
place.

Just call me Ping

I dropped the name William after I moved to Hong Kong. That was in part to avoid
confusion in my master’s program. A classmate from Beijing used the name, and so did a
Chinese-American internship coordinator. Since then I’ve introduced myself as Ping—
short for Zheping—to both Chinese and Westerners.

According to Chinese culture, only my close friends should call me Ping. But
allowing foreigners to call me that too has had its benefits. Because I was one of the few
Chinese students using a Chinese first name in my master’s class, I was easily
remembered by my dozens of foreign classmates. My identity was unique, and consistent
across social circles. That saved me from being confused in conversations like, “Which
Angie are you talking about, the Canadian one or the Chinese?” or “Oh, you mean Zhang
Jian, right? I didn’t know he’s called Tommy.”

A D V E RT I S E M E N T

I still appreciate it, of course, when Western friends make a sincere effort—despite the
clumsy pronunciation—to call me Zheping, after realizing that’s the complete version of
my first name.

Even better is when they express curiosity about the meaning of the name, and how to
write it in Chinese characters. Then I’m happy to write down 喆平. I tell them 喆
symbolically represents “double auspicious” while 平 means “safe and sound.” The
name carries my parents’ simple wish for me to live a life free from accidents or suffering.
The usual reply is, “Whoa, that’s a great name.”

My name—like the names ripped down from the dorm doors at Columbia University— is a
reflection of the different naming cultures found in China and English-speaking
countries. For many Westerners that difference is a source of fascination. If you’re
Chinese and interacting with foreigners, skipping over the meaning of your given name is
a shame: You miss the chance to not only add some charm to an introduction, but also
share an important part of Chinese culture.

When I chose my byline name for Quartz, I went with Zheping Huang. This is the only
name that I feel I belong to. I would regret it not coming along with my pieces.
 A D V E RT I S E M E N T

My colleague Siyi Chen thinks along the same lines. In her school days in China she tried
everything from Lucy to Susan to Claire. Living in the US, she’s settled with Siyi. An
American toddler once called her “See”—drawing some laughter—but she enjoys the
uniqueness brought by her Chinese first name, and the ensuing recognition that she is a
Chinese citizen, not an “ABC” (American-born Chinese).

Of course, I’ve met many Chinese people with English names that suit them well. My
friend Yilei has used the similar sounding “Elaine” since she was a teenager. Some
Chinese names are too confusing in English, among them He Shiting (何诗婷), a common
name for girls. And in any case, whether to have an English name is a personal choice.

But my point is, if अिनका is just Anika, and かいと just Kaito, why can’t ⼩明 just be
Xiaoming?

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