A Side of Me You Can’t Pronounce
October 27th, 2025
Photo: Bizzy Webb
Writer: Anbini Ganesh
Editor: Emily Cavero
“Can you repeat that for me?”
Silence falls upon the teacher as they call my name in a roll call.
“An-bi-ni.” “Anbu.” Love. “Ini.” Sweet.
My name was crafted by my dad, an idea from a dream that took physical form. But growing up, my dad’s creativity always seemed to trip someone’s tongue. In classrooms, introductions, and Starbucks lines, I’d rush to say “It’s okay,” with a smile before they could even get the chance to try again. “It’s a hard name. That’s close enough.”
Despite the endless times my mom introduced me to teachers as Ahn-bin-ee, I would get called Ann-bee-nee. On the gymnastics roster, my name was reduced to “Bini,” as the three syllables just seemed to be too much for them at once. My mom never understood the confusion and refused to give in to mispronunciations, solidifying the true pronunciation in doctors’ offices and registration phone calls. To this day, her pronunciation of my name doesn’t adjust to any setting or audience, and it never will.
I, on the other hand, was young, impressionable, and wanted to avoid any inconvenience for those around me. I never corrected anyone more than once, and after just a year or two in school, I began to introduce myself as Ann-bee-nee.
To my parents, it was a tragedy. I was throwing away the meaning and charm they had constructed from Tamil words themselves. My parents would still smile when people complimented the beauty of my name, though neither side realized that what they were praising had been slightly lost in translation. However, as I grew older and continued to use the new version of my name, I claimed it as my own. Ann-bee-nee became the name that I was called in the classroom and the name that was introduced before a strong handshake, but that wasn’t really me. Some people are still insistent on “really saying it right.” The intention was heartwarming, but I soon realized their longing for proper pronunciation made me uncomfortable. I had grown into two people: Ahn-bin-ee and Ann-bee-nee.
Ahn-bin-ee was called downstairs for dinner by her mom, teased for dressing up by her brother, and taken out for ice cream by her dad. Ann-bee-nee told people what career field she was interested in, led consulting meetings with clients, and laughed with friends who didn’t know that they were mispronouncing her name. Ahn-bin-ee became reserved for my family relationships, while Ann-bee-nee became my face for work and school. The two versions of me grew side by side, not in conflict but rather in a quiet coexistence.
It doesn’t bother me anymore that Ann-bee-nee isn’t the “correct” way to say my name. In a way, the original melody, the shift of vowels that only native speakers can say so well, has become sacred. It belongs to the part of me that speaks in Tamil, that sits cross-legged on the floor while my mom oils my hair.
A name isn’t just what you’re called; it’s a part of your identity. I used to think that I had diluted mine, but now I see that I’ve simply learned to display it in two ways: an outward identity for the general public, and one reserved for my culture and my family. I haven’t conformed. I’ve simply expanded.
There’s a side of me you can’t pronounce—the sound of home.
