Say my name

My name is Hào, a Vietnamese name.  In America, they call me Hao, as in “How do you do?” Worse yet, I get Hal, Howard, Ho, Heyo, and many other things.

When I swore in to become a U.S. citizen, the judge asked: “Do you want to change your name?  Many of your compatriots do.  They become David, Charles, and Sam.  Not Dung and Phuc and such.”

I said No.  I want to keep mine.  It’s the name my mother gave me.  It means good, kind, generous and more.  It means the earth, the sky, the rain, the river, the fields, the banana plants and the earthworms.  It means the sadness and joy of everyday, the rice we eat, the bits of tears and everything.

When we have time, I can show you the 6 tones to each word, and each means something different.  My name is not Hao, Háo, Hảo, Hão, or Hạo.  It is Hào.

You say it as if there is a sigh at the end.  It is a softness to the sound, the softness of the mother and the land.

When they asked me to change my name, I never hesitated.  I am Hào.  Please call me by my name.