Jane Wong
My mom named me Jane at the restaurant where I grew up on the Jersey shore. My mother, very pregnant with me, was working the cash register at the restaurant when it dawned on her that she had to give her daughter an English name. To fit in.* She asked a random customer to name me my “American” name and loved how simple it sounded. The customer actually tried Maria first, but my mom couldn’t say it. Jane feels like it fits me―there’s something kind of old fashioned about this name. I keep forgetting my Chinese name, which literally translates to fragrant vegetable. Maybe it means nostalgia? It feels so embarrassing sometimes to forget how to say my Chinese name, to get the Toisanese tones wrong. Every single time I try to say it, it slips away from me like an eel.
Recently, I recorded the audiobook for my memoir, Meet Me Tonight in Atlantic City, where I say my Chinese name…and I forgot it again. I had to call my mom at work and ask her how to pronounce it. I dream of being fluent in my heritage language, dream of getting the tones right. If I can’t say my Chinese name, am I even myself?
*From Jane’s memoir, Meet Me in Atlantic City.
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