Words by: Akira Kerr 

I was sitting in Year 7 English. We were combined with another class, so there were close to 50 people in the room. The bell for the last period had just gone, and everyone was slowly making their way into the classroom.

It was towards the start of the year, I didn’t know a decent portion of those people, so I sat tentatively with my small group of friends. I realised that we had a substitute teacher. Crap. My stomach churned and turned itself inside out. It was uncomfortable. She started to mark the roll, I followed along as she read out the names, with the rhythmic ‘yeps’ that preceded.

Two more people.
One more person.
And as she got to my name she paused.
The flow discontinued and the room silenced. “…Akria? Akiria?”.

“It’s Akira.”

This was Wodonga, and I was one of the few non-white people at the school, or anywhere in the town for that matter. My name is by no means unpronounceable by the average English speaker. It’s relatively user-friendly, as my parents actually took into consideration if my siblings and my names would be pronounceable by English speakers.

“It’s phonetic” is something I’ve heard myself say a lot to those who are confused. There are a myriad of ways that people have interpreted how the 5 letters that make up my name should sound together: Akira with a long “I” sound. Akira with a short “I” sound. Or some people, to make it somehow easier for themselves, decided to drop the first ‘A’, dubbing me “Kira”.

Until I went to university there were only a handful of people who would actually pronounce my name in the way it was intended, the Japanese pronunciation. So, I grew to introduce myself with the long ‘I’ variation, a very Aussie variation. Over time, hearing my name pronounced correctly began to sound weird if it wasn’t accompanied by other Japanese words. People asked me how it was supposed to be pronounced and it was embarrassing when they clumsily tried to parrot me.

So, the question I ask myself is, was my automatic anglicisation of my name an effort to cater to others for easier pronunciation? Or was it me denying my cultural identity in a barely noticeable way? Should I have unapologetically told people the correct pronunciation all along? Was alienation from my own ethnicity and culture, through enabling the mispronunciation of my name, my own doing after all?

In school, I always struggled with my ethnic identity. I would make self-deprecating Asian jokes before someone could do it to me first. I felt guilty for not having enough Asian friends. Even now, I don’t feel deserving of calling myself Japanese until I have conquered the language.

But, analysing the way that living as a half-Asian person in a predominately white regional town makes me feel, has helped. Slow and steady exploration of my own culture has finally allowed me to recognise that the way I am half-Japanese is the right way for me.

The first step for me was including my whole name in Japanese in my Instagram bio, alongside little Australian and Japanese flags. Then, starting to include my middle name, which is my mum’s maiden name, on documents and forms where it would be publicly seen. Whereas before I would refuse to disclose it for fear of it being mispronounced.

My name, I can now say, is something that I think is so cool. It’s something that automatically signifies my identity. My full name, Akira Shimote Kerr, is symbolic of the unique experience I share with other members of the ‘not quite one race not quite another, but still whole’ community. I am proud of my name — it holds a history, it holds a sense of recognition and it helps me reconcile with my unique identity. And what I want to say to my parents every day is “Thanks for giving me a sick-as name”.