In college, I changed my name to Rachel. It didn't stick.

When my parents and I immigrated to the United States from South Korea in the late 1970s, we took the traditional path to citizenship through naturalization. Seven years later, when I was eight years old, it was time for us to be officially received—and I had the opportunity to change my name. At the time, it seemed that many of the Korean Americans around us were adding a first name like Joanne, Christine, or Sarah, or David, Michael, or John.

I don’t remember exactly what name I picked. It might have been Rebecca (good biblical name) or Elizabeth (I liked all the possibilities of nicknames, which struck me as solidly American). But somehow we forgot the necessary paperwork or missed the deadline. Or maybe my parents got cold feet and didn’t want me to change my name. Whatever the reason, the opportunity passed. I recall being disappointed, but the moment passed quickly, and I soon forgot about it.

That is, I forgot until the teasing began. At first, I was fielding questions about whether I was Chinese or Japanese. Then came the guesses, like a game: “Where did you come from?” Then there were all the variations and changes they made to Mihee, an easy target of a name. And since it’s an Asian name, it was easily paired with ching-chong songs while my tormenters pulled their eyes up at a slant: “Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these.” These incidents led to years of propagating the deep shame a person can feel, calcifying that self-hatred until it becomes a part of your skin and bones.