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Years before I was born, my mother knew a man—a Black American man—who was serving in the US military. According to my mother’s story, this military serviceman was married to a Japanese woman. My mother met his wife; she was a Japanese-American woman named M(r)s. Toshiya. My mother never mentioned any last names, so I don’t know M(r)s. Toshiya’s last name. My mother hadn’t gotten the chance to get to know this Japanese-American woman or befriend her. My mother only knew that M(r)s. Toshiya had been disowned from her own family because she had married a Black man. That short encounter with M(r)s. Toshiya left a lasting impression on my mother, and my mother fell in love with her first name. So when I was born, my mother decided to give that name to me as my first name. Even though my mother Americanized the spelling to T-O-S-H-E-I-A, the Japanese meaning was the same: to bring forth good fortune.

However, my mother had no Japanese language or kanji knowledge, so I have no idea what kanji would be used for that particular name. Also, since living in Japan, I have learned that most names including Toshi means the person with the name is a male. In order to use Toshi for a woman’s name, it is best to add “ko” (common for many Japanese female names) at the end so that the name would be Toshiko. It made me wonder: did M(r)s. Toshiya’s parents break from tradition by giving their daughter a “male” name? Or perhaps, my mother made a mistake and misheard Toshiko as Toshiya? Would my mother even like the name Toshiko? I’ll probably never find out those answers.

Throughout my childhood and becoming a young adult, I always knew that my name was unique. Due to my appearance as Black/Blasian, the name TOSHEIA (same sound as Toshiya) was rarely ever pronounced with the Japanese sound it deserved. The truth is that many Americans are lazy when pronouncing names that aren’t European in origin. As a result, many people of different ethnic backgrounds pronounced my name in ways that were ignorant at best and annoying at worst: Teesha, Toe-eesha, Tasheeka, Takeesha, or Toshiba (which was as close as it got to a Japanese sound).

This mentality among many Americans—this notion of being OK with mispronouncing non-European names—can also influence how people think of you as a human being, and what they think you deserve in life. For example, when applying to jobs in America, my resume was often rejected. My last name is not Asian, so my first name was seen as “ghetto.” I rarely got any job interviews. Americans’ mistreatment of my first name, combined with challenges of gaining employment, inspired me to legally add another first name. I added the name TUNEY, because it was easier to say and more racially ambiguous. This new first name helped me get more interviews, but my prospects for actual job offers did not change.

The bridge seen at a distance reminds me of past opportunities I could observe from a distance, but was not able to access.

In Japan, both of my first names work in my favor, so I didn’t—and still don’t—have difficulty with employment. However, I added the name Tuney BEFORE I started tracing my roots. If I had added that name AFTER tracing my roots, my name would’ve been spelled the Japanese way: TSUNI. Either way, both spellings use the same Hiragana つに in Japan.

Interestingly, I DO know the kanji for Tuney because I decided to find kanji that more or less reflected my life path. TUNEY or TSUNI could be represented with 突ニ. The first kanji tsu means “to jab, thrust, or lunge,” while the second kanji ni simply means “two.” Even though there is no clear translation for this kanji combination, I can describe it as symbolizing “two jabs.” For me, the message behind this name is: “Knock obstacles out of my way with twice the power.” “Go twice as hard, or go home.”

If I had to use any kanji for TOSHEIA, I would use 年屋. The first kanji toshi means “year,” while the second kanji ya can be used for “room” or “store.” So if 突ニ年屋 had to describe my entire first name, TUNEY-TOSHEIA, it could mean: “Every year there’s room for fortune, if you go twice as hard.” In other words, I shouldn’t approach my life or goals half-heartedly. Go twice as hard or go home. This is my motto for my everyday life.

Does this mean that my name became my identity? Does my name define me? Do I define my name? Or is it both?  How much impact does your name REALLY have on your destiny? Does your name make your destiny predetermined, or do you WILL your path in life? This article might not provide any answers, but it can at least provide food for thought.

© 2024 Tuney-Tosheia P. McDaniels

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