Hello, my name is Dong Eun 동은

I’ve never truly made peace with my name—a realization that has settled in after 37 years of living with it. It all began in June of 1989 when I started summer school shortly after immigrating to the U.S. that May. There I stood, wearing a name tag awkwardly inscribed as "Dong-Eun Lee." Almost immediately, I became the target of ridicule, subjected to names like Dung, Dunger, Ding Dong, and Dung Dung. Sometimes, you wish you could simply unhear certain things.

My father suggested I adopt an “American name,” settling on Michael—not Michelle—because he didn’t know how to spell it. To make matters worse, a school official mistakenly printed my name as "Mellissa" in the yearbook.

As I navigated this new world, I introduced myself as Michelle, spelling it as Michael until someone pointed out the blunder. The humiliation was profound, yet I felt a strange relief in distancing myself from the cruel nicknames. I had to compromise my name for something so arbitrary, all to make everyone else’s life more convenient and to appease those who didn’t even want to attempt to pronounce it correctly or care about the name I had cherished my whole life.

Looking back, I realize how devastating it was for a 14-year-old girl to lose not just her name, but also her country, her mother, her language, and her culture. This profound loss kept me locked in a dark place, shrouded in loneliness and confusion. Studies have shown that frequent mispronunciation of names can lead to emotional distress, as individuals may feel that their identity is neither acknowledged nor respected, exacerbating feelings of isolation.

My name, Dong Eun, carries beautiful meanings and embodies my heritage and ethnic background. It was a significant part of my identity and a source of pride as a Korean. My name was carefully chosen by a respected figure who wished me the best luck and destiny. Surrendering that name for an arbitrary American equivalent felt like a cruel joke.

When I became a naturalized U.S. citizen, I took my husband’s last name and kept Michelle. In doing so, I squandered my chance to reclaim my name, Dongeun, once again.

After 37 years of living as Michelle, I have been contemplating ways to reclaim my name and advocate for the part of me that mourns the loss of my identity. How can I find justice for the part of me that was mocked, shamed, and blamed for being “too foreign” and “too difficult to pronounce”? Studies indicate that individuals who reclaim or maintain their original names often report higher levels of psychological resilience and well-being. This reclaiming can foster a sense of empowerment and connection to one’s roots.

I’ve decided it’s time to acknowledge and validate the part of me that has suffered so much loss. I recognize that I have been stripped of my core identity, and I extend compassion to the part of me that was dehumanized and hurt. Reclaiming that identity might take years—or even a lifetime.

As an immigrant, losing my name was one of the many traumatic losses I endured. So let me reintroduce myself: My name is Dong Eun. It means "a person who brings blessings from the East."

Do you have a name that was forgotten and abandoned? Is it hiding in a dark place, burdened by shame, just as mine once was? Is there a part of you that yearns to be reclaimed? Can we bring that part of you into the light and restore the power and freedom it deserves?