This is an article about names, something near to my heart. In fact, I even have a name. It’s Yalun. You might have a name too. It’s probably not Yalun, but hey, we can’t have all won the name game. Yalun fits me well. Yalun’s an integral part of me. I look like a Yalun. I sound like a Yalun. I feel like a Yalun. Unfortunately not everyone feels the same way.
Every day I receive emails addressed to Yalin Ti or Yulan To despite the fact that my email has the words “Yalun” and “Tu” in it. White people think I’m Alan and Asian people also think I’m Alan, and when I correct them they think I’m some sort of Eastern European. If I try a third time to explain my cultural heritage (I’m from the land of half-Asia where everyone is beautiful save the 8 percent Asiapean population) and am unsuccessful, I tell them it’s Eastern European and I come from generations of Serbian Yaluns. I imagine a 16th Century Eastern Bloc version of myself at a tavern playing the game where you spread your fingers on a table and try to stab yourself. “Very good,” Serbian Yalun tells his progeny. There is mead and old-timey instruments. I might just be thinking of “Game of Thrones” now.
But despite these affronts to my name, unfortunately I can’t blame others. Names are surprisingly hard to remember. The number of times I meet somebody who says, “Hi, I’m Patrick” and I respond “Hi Patrick” then immediately forget his name is about 90-100 trillion. It’s weird, right? Unless somebody has an awesome name (“Ghostdog,” “Balthazar”) they’re autoforgot in my brain. So I resort to tactics like bringing another friend into the convo so Patrick will reintroduce himself, and then half the time I’ll forget his name again five minutes later. The final attempt at memory involves a middle-school memory device: Patrick is wearing a peach shirt hence Peach: Patrick. But then another 5 minutes later all I can think is that his shirt is orange so maybe he’s named Owen or perhaps Serbian Owen.
When you go out, it’s worse. LKF is not the quietest of places and in a club you’d have enough trouble hearing a “Sarah” much less a potentially Serbian “Yalun.” If we don’t get it first try, I just tell people to call me “Guy” (like “dude,” not the French one) and I’ll call them “baby,” regardless of their gender. “Hey baby, this is baby,” I tell some baby. Have I mentioned that people really like me at clubs?
The best story of clubs and names came courtesy of my friend Cara who is crazy but crazy in a good way. We were out at Armani Privé, and I introduced her to an actor I know who was very drunk and started getting aggressive. I was going to do what I normally do when I make a poor introduction (pretend to check my phone, run away stranding my friend) but I knew Cara would rise to the occasion. She took the actor’s hand and said, in her sexiest voice, “I will take you home and fuck you right now. IF you can tell me what my name is.” He stared back, shocked, excited. And then thought, Oh no, she’s serious. He squinted his eyes. I’ve never seen anybody think so hard in my entire life.
Finally he came to the answer. “Ashley,” he said. “It’s Ashley.” She shook her head sarcastically sadly and he left, humiliated. I saw him the next day. “Man,” he told me. “Your friend Ashley’s a huge bitch.”