I’m standing at the counter of the Registrar’s Office at my University talking to a lady named Vanessa. She starts scrolling through my records on the computer in front of her, and I can sense that she is already annoyed with me.
“My name. The name that I’m enrolled under at the university.”
She frowns. “What’s wrong with the one you have now, Jenny?” She glances at the computer screen to confirm that this is—indeed—my name.
“Because it’s not my real name.”
This statement is met with silence. I immediately realize this makes me sound like a shady con artist, one of those people they feature on shows like 20/20 or 48 Hours Mystery. I mean,” I stammer, “I need to change it to my Chinese name.”